


The Other Tyrell Girl

by usuallysunny



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, But with a happy ending, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Inspired by The Other Boleyn Girl, Jon Snow is King of The Seven Kingdoms, Jon is married to Cersei for political reasons, Robb Stark is Commander of the Kingsguard, Sansa and Margaery are sisters, Sansa is a Tyrell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:55:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24110059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: When King Jon announces his intentions to visit all the noble houses of Westeros, Mace Tyrell and his advisors sense an opportunity. To be mistress to the King of the Seven Kingdoms is a great honour indeed, one the ambitious Margaery is all too happy to receive.As summer dawns, King Jon rides into Highgarden, but it's Margaery’s younger sister who catches his eye.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Robb Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Comments: 95
Kudos: 560





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set in an alternate universe where Jon finds out about his real parents early on and goes to war with Robert Baratheon to reclaim his birthright, driven by a sense of duty and responsibility, rather than desire for power. He wins and becomes King of the Seven Kingdoms, with Robb by his side as Lord Commander of his Army. He takes Cersei as his wife and Tyrion as his Hand to keep the Lannisters on side. 
> 
> I realise some of the history here may not logistically work/canon timings might not add up, but maybe imagine an alternate Westeros and an alternate timeline and it’s fanfiction so a little suspension of disbelief is always appropriate, right? Right?!

  
It dawns surprisingly sunny and warm, the morning King Jon rides along the Roseroad.

Sansa has never seen Highgarden so alive, the castle brimming with nervous, excited energy. The servants rush around her, making sure to prepare the finest wines and roasting meats, and each one seems fascinated with dissecting every rumour they’ve ever heard about the young King.

She waits on a balcony as they hurry, her fingers curling into the weathered stone. In the distance, she can hear the blare of herald’s trumpets and see the sun glinting off the river Mander, making the water glitter like sapphire jewels. 

She closes her eyes against the breeze, wonders where her sister is, and remembers an unsavoury conversation from a mere moon before.

_“King Jon hasn’t lain with Queen Cersei since their wedding night, nigh on a year ago,” Varys informs them, weaving his intricate web, “leaving an… opportunity. One in which, should you succeed, you would secure for yourself and your family immeasurable wealth and position.”_

_"_ _What kind of opportunity?” Sansa asks, her brows drawing into a frown. She doesn’t like this. She doesn’t like this man, or the man next to him, the one they call Littlefinger, and she doesn’t like the way her cunning sister seems to be hanging on to their every word._

_Margaery’s fierce sense of ambition isn't always a positive thing. She could be reckless and impulsive and rash — and Sansa can already tell this is bad news._

_“The opportunity to become mistress to the King of Westeros,” Petyr Baelish cuts straight to the chase, “naturally, as the eldest and with your brother’s… inclinations… Margaery may wish to marry into a noble house to secure the Tyrell’s influence. This leaves you, Lady Sansa, and given what I’m told of the King’s weakness for redheads, he would find you a fine comfort indeed.”_

_Margaery remains silent, the cogs in her head turning, already formulating a plan, while Sansa’s temper flares, humiliated and outraged at the prospect._

_"These are your dreams for me, then?" she turns to their father, fire in her usually soft eyes, "to trade me off like cattle to a man who is already married, for any children I may bear to be bastards, for him to use me for his own pleasure and toss me aside? And what then? My reputation and prospects would be ruined!”_

_Mace Tyrell, the old fool, looks conflicted and torn and useless. Sansa suddenly realises what is happening here, and looks to Margaery. Her sister’s brow is arched, her expression knowing, and they communicate without words. She realises too. This is exactly what the cunning Baelish and Varys want; someone who has power and influence, but who is also easy to manipulate._

_"To be the King's mistress is not to demean yourself, Sansa," their father tries, but she can practically see the greed in his eyes, "they say he is a fair man and gaining his favour would be beneficial to all of us."_

_"I don't care about gaining favour," she insists, unmoved, "I want a quiet life, a simple life, with a simple husband here in Highgarden. I will not do this."_

_Baelish gives a dramatic sigh._

_"We are only aware of the strain on the King's marriage due to our close proximity with him. We came to you first, but soon enough, all the noble houses in Westeros will be flaunting their daughters before him. We can, of course, take this news elsewhere. Perhaps to Dorne? I hear Oberyn Martell's daughters have grown to be particularly beautiful…"_

_"No!" Mace plays straight into his hands, "my daughter will accept."_

_"I will not!" Sansa bites out, spitting the words like poison on her tongue._

_"No," Margaery speaks then, her brow perfectly arched, "but I will."_

_Four sets of eyes snap to her._

_"I accept the challenge," her mouth twitches into a smirk of her own and Sansa's blood runs cold because she knows that look, "nothing would make me happier than to provide the King with some much needed comfort and distraction…”_

_Things move quickly then, and Sansa would remember little of what came next, only the concerned words she speaks to her sister._

_"Really, Margaery? Do you know what you're doing? A mistress…"_

_"I will not be his mistress," Margaery tells her, confidence lining her voice, "I will be his Queen."_

Sansa’s memory is interrupted by an excited shout, telling her the King has breached the gates.

She gives a heavy sigh and turns her back to the breeze.

It’s time.

Sansa stands next to her sister, her hands clasped in-front of her.

Their father and grandmother Olenna stand to Margaery’s right, with Loras the other side of them, and together they watch as King Jon and his entourage ride towards them.

She feels, more than hears, her sister’s sharp intake of breath.

“He’s _beautiful_ ,” she says of the King, her large eyes sparkling.

Sansa arches a brow, her gaze drifting from her sister to the man in question and back again.

“Why do you sound surprised?” she asks, bored, because this is hardly news. Since his ascension to the throne, tales of the King’s good looks, of his dark hair and thick beard and warrior’s physique, could be heard from the Wall to the mountains of Dorne. 

Though she will admit… none of the tales have quite done him justice.

He’s probably the most handsome man she’s ever seen, rugged and dark where the men of Highgarden are pretty, and she averts her eyes to the ground as he nears.

The man riding next to him is handsome too, with brown curls and a beard of his own, and from the wolves touching noses on his cloak, Sansa places him as Robb Stark, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. She finds this interesting, because with his long, dark face and steel grey eyes, King Jon looks more like a Stark.

Sansa has always been a dutiful student, learning the characteristics and words of the noble houses by heart, and she remembers the Starks to have a reputation for their melancholy and iciness. Perhaps in a different life, she would have suited the name.

But they say King Jon's mother Lyanna had been wild, a touch of the wolfsblood in her.

Already, Sansa finds herself intrigued as to which characteristics he has inherited.

Then she pushes down that curiosity, as it’s not her place and it’s _Margaery_ who will be vying for his attention.

As he dismounts, she notices the lack of protection around him. Robb Stark remains by his side, but the rest of the party fall back, leaving him strangely exposed. Perhaps he doesn’t need protection. If the rumours are to believed, he’s the best swordsman the Seven Kingdoms has ever seen, and his hand rests on the pommel of the blade at his hip.

As he gently smiles at Olenna and bends to kiss her hand, Margaery whispers out of the corner of her mouth.

“I find myself rather excited for this plan.”

Sansa fights the urge to roll her eyes, keeping her gaze focused ahead.

“I did not realise the prospect of becoming a _mistress_ was so enthralling to you.”

Margaery huffs, nudging her slightly with her shoulder as the King accepts her father next.

“I told you… I will not be his mistress. I will be his Queen.”

Sansa’s jaw tightens, anger mixing with frustration.

“He already has a Queen,” she says dully.

She hears her sister scoff, earning her an incensed look from their father just before he focuses his attention on introducing Loras as the Knight of Flowers.

“A Queen who is more than a decade older than him and past her prime,” Margaery says wickedly, “one who probably couldn’t give him heirs, even if he did fuck her.”

“Margaery!” Sansa hisses, her cheeks bursting into heat. Her sister merely gives a pretty, musical laugh and then their father and Robb Stark and King Jon are standing in-front of them.

“And these _excitable young ladies_ are my daughters,” the description sounds more like a warning than a compliment and Mace hardens his gaze, gesturing to Sansa first, “my youngest, Lady Sansa of Highgarden.”

“Your Grace,” she murmurs and as she dips into a curtsey, she realises her heart is pounding. She feels her hand encased in a gloved one and her eyes flicker up to catch steel grey as the King places a kiss on the back of it.

His lips are soft and full and his kiss burns on her skin.

“Lady Sansa,” he murmurs in a low, Northern brogue. He gifts her hand back to her and it aches from the loss. She’s never heard her name spoken in a voice so deep, and it stirs heat throughout her body.

When Sansa was a girl, she was a hopeless romantic. She would waste the days away reading tale after tale about handsome knights and faraway lands. As she grew, she watched her brother struggle and despair over his desires, watched her sister give her heart away to men who used and discarded her, and over the years, she stopped believing in silly fairy tales.

She longed only for a comfortable life, a _quiet_ life, with a gentle man who would treat her well.

Now, with the heat of King Jon’s eyes on her and a tightening in the pit of her belly, she feels something dangerous spark to life again.

Her father is introducing Margaery now but she can barely hear him, her pulse pounding too loud in her ears.

“And this…” he starts far more loftily, proudly, “is my eldest daughter, Margaery. They call her the Rose of Highgarden, and her beauty is matched only by her intelligence.”

Sansa bites her tongue, irritated but not surprised by the differences in their introductions. Curiously, the King’s eyes remain on her, even as her sister drops into a curtsey before him.

She notices Robb Stark’s curious eyes flit from the King, to her, and back again – and then his mouth twitches into a smirk. He shakes his head slightly, like he’s in on a secret he’s not sharing, and then he’s hurling that smile at Margaery like a weapon.

“My lady,” he murmurs in a voice not as deep, but just as Northern, and he arches a brow as he takes her hand and places a kiss upon it.

Margaery’s eyes twinkle, her own lips quirking, and the flirtation in her voice is undeniable when she drawls, “my Lord.”

Robb looks delighted, his eyes flickering over her, and Sansa fights the urge to roll her own. She’s watching him fall in love, the way they all fall in love with Margaery, and there’s no way he could know it won’t end well. 

Margaery turns to the King, purposefully dipping into a curtsey low enough to show her cleavage. His eyes flicker downwards only momentarily before he drags his gaze to her face, politely taking her hand and kissing it too.

He’s quiet and brooding, furs far too warm for the south pulled around his shoulders, but he looks confident in his own skin. He reminds her of Valerian steel — cool, unaffected. He’s lived in Kings Landing for over a year now, since he took the throne from Robert Baratheon, but he still wears those furs. Robb does, too. Sansa wracks her brain again for what they say about Northmen. They say they’re made of ice, that they melt when they pass the Twins, and yet here they are – wolves that have made Kings Landing their home. 

She wants to ask him if he’s always cold, if snow is as pretty as everyone says it is, and what Winterfell is like.

Of course, she remains silent and says none of these things.

She merely watches as Margaery smiles a blinding smile and takes his arm, leading him into the castle.

She follows them, making idle small talk with Robb Stark, and wonders why she wishes the King would look back – just once.

“What do you think the North is like?”

Sansa asks Margaery that evening as their handmaidens fuss around them, preparing them for the feast that's being held in honour of the King’s arrival.

She sits patiently at the dressing table as the finishing touches are made to her elaborate braids, trying not to wince when her hair is pulled too hard. 

Margaery sighs from where she stands in-front of the floor length mirror. She’s holding a red dress up to her body, examining it from side to side, and she lets out a huff before she tosses it on the bed.

“Not this one,” she taps her foot impatiently, ignoring her sister’s question, “what colour do you think would drive the King mad with lust?”

“He was wearing a lot of black.”

Margaery stares at her through the mirror, her reflection quirking a brow.

“I can’t wear _black,_ Sansa. Are you mad?”

Sansa shrugs, pushing down a wave of irritation as her handmaiden gives her hair another too-rough tug.

“I’m just saying… maybe that’s his favourite colour. Wasn’t he a man of the Night’s Watch once?”

“That was, like, a hundred years ago,” Margaery dramatically embellishes, “he’s not a bastard anymore, he’s a Stark – or is it Targaryen? I don’t know, either way, he’s a _King_ and above all, a _man._ With desires like any other.”

“Stark,” Sansa grumbles, “he chose Stark as his legitimate name. I don’t think he likes to be called a Targaryen.”

“Whatever,” Margaery rolls her eyes like she couldn’t care less, “my point is what colour dress shall I wear to make him _act_ on those desires?”

Sansa sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger.

“The green with the cut outs at the waist,” she settles on, “it brings out your eyes.”

Margaery tips her head, clicking her tongue before she agrees and asks her handmaiden to fetch it for her.

“Marg?” Sansa asks again, her tone pointed, “the North?”

Her sister gives an impatient sigh.

“I don’t know – _cold_ ,” she shrugs, “and wet and dreary and poor. I bet Northerners are _insufferably_ boring, and they only fuck when they’re married, and everything that’s interesting about this stupid country ends when you pass the Twins.”

Sansa stays quiet – because although she has no way of knowing, she doesn’t think that’s what the North is like at all.

The castle is buzzing with life as they sit down for the feast.

It’s extravagant, even by the Tyrell’s standards. There are roasting meats and every fruit imaginable and the finest wines.

Her father has pulled out all the stops and his chest practically puffs with pride and _yet—_

King Jon seems unmoved, unimpressed, as he sits at the head of the table. Robb Stark is ever present by his side, an easy expression on his face, and Sansa notices Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King, for the first time. They say Jon hadn’t wanted him to be Hand, that he favoured his crippled half-brother, but Bran Stark was still young, unused to the politics of the south, and the Lannisters were a powerful family to have on side.

They had initially fought for the Baratheons, Jon’s wife having belonged to Robert first, but had quickly switched sides once it became clear the wolves would win. She supposes they have that in common with the Tyrells, and Sansa wonders if the King will be understanding. They say he is merciful, but to shift allegiances at the drop of a hat seems cowardly and disloyal, and she wonders if he will punish them.

He hasn’t yet, but now a year has passed, and the dust has settled, and old rivalries must be put to bed.

By the tense way her father holds himself, his limbs coiled tight like springs, Sansa gets the feeling he’s nervous about this too.

“I hope your chambers are to your liking, your Grace,” he says as a servant reaches over his shoulder to pour a cup of wine. Around her, the other servants do the same, and Sansa enjoys the sweet taste as it makes its way down her throat. When one of the girls reaches the King, Sansa doesn’t miss how she blushes, her hands shaking slightly as she pours the drink. 

The King’s mouth twitches under his beard.

“Aye, they’re fine,” he answers cooly, “thank you.”

Sansa watches her father bristle slightly, his pride wounded. But she gets the feeling that Jon Stark is not one for pleasantries, for flowery words or sycophantic gestures. He seems direct, gruff and straight to the point and unapologetically _Northern,_ and he certainly doesn’t fit in with the perfumed lords of the south.

This is why she can already tell he won’t be impressed by what Margaery says next.

“If I may, my King…” he drags his dark eyes to her as she starts what is sure to be a brazenly flirtatious speech, “I feel as though I already know you, for I have come to love and admire you from afar. Tales of your courage and wisdom have never been far from my ears, and those tales have taken root deep inside of me.”

Her voice dips into a husky rasp when she drawls _inside of me,_ and from her place next to her, Sansa gapes in disbelief, her brow arching.

 _She’s not wasting any time_ , she thinks sullenly.

The King merely blinks at her and Sansa notices the way Robb hides his smirk behind his cup.

“Thank you, Lady Margaery,” he says eventually, clearing his throat, “you are too kind.”

Sansa fights the urge to roll her eyes – because her sister may be many things, but _kind_ is not one of them.

“While flattery is always welcome,” Tyrion Lannister starts, his tone light and mischievous, “the King has made the journey to Highgarden for a reason.”

“And what might that be?” Mace asks somewhat hesitantly, like he’s afraid of the answer.

Tyrion opens his mouth, but it’s the King who speaks.

“To thank you,” he says, to everyone’s surprise, “for your aid during the Battle for the Iron Throne. Your initial support for the Baratheons was… unfortunate, but all that matters is your help in the end was pivotal.”

Sansa’s eyes slide from Margaery, to her father, to Tyrion, and she watches all their reactions.

The King is speaking again, his attention on her brother.

“I understand you fought for me?”

Loras nods and Sansa watches the movement of his throat as he swallows.

“I did, your Grace.”

“My brother here tells me you’re one of the most skilled knights in all of Westeros,” his eyes flick briefly to Robb, a man who was raised as his brother, but is actually his cousin, “that you cut down dozens of Baratheon and Lannister men. As far as I’m concerned, that entitles you to my gratitude – and a gift of your choosing.”

Loras’ eyes widen, his stunned gaze flying from his father to the King and back again.

Mace beams with pride and gives his son a nod.

Sansa knows what he’s going to ask for before he’s opened his mouth.

“I would like to be part of your Kingsguard,” he says, his voice a little thick with emotion, “I am willing to take that vow, and pledge my life to protect you.”

King Jon raises a brow, his gaze drifting to Robb who’s biting into a turkey leg, rather disinterested.

“What do you think, Lord Commander?” he asks, a surprisingly teasing edge to his voice, as though the brothers still find their formal titles very amusing indeed.

“I think you’d be an excellent edition,” Robb says to Loras, “as the King says, rumours of your skill reached us even in Winterfell. In-fact, I think I should like to spar with you – see if all those tales are true.”

“It would be my honour.”

Loras smirks, happiness and delight and something like desire sparking behind his eyes. Sansa purses her lips, holding back her laugh. Robb Stark is certainly a handsome man, but judging by the way he looks at her sister, he doesn’t share Loras’ inclinations.

“And you, my Lord?” the King turns his attention to Mace, “you provided invaluable men and resources — what would you like in return?”

Mace smiles because his plan couldn’t have gone any better.

“If it pleases, your Grace, I should like for you to take my daughter Margaery back to Kings Landing with you. She is an ambitious young woman, and the capital is where she should be. Perhaps you could find a place for her at court and eventually, a good match.”

King Jon raises a brow, his gaze flitting almost imperceptibly to his Hand.

Tyrion gives a little shrug, taking a sip of his wine.

One of the servant girls appears behind the King and leans over his shoulder to refill his cup, but he smoothly covers it with his palm. The girl drops back.

“I suppose the Queen could use another noble lady around her. A friend, if you will… she does seem to get lonely,” he decides eventually, before turning his gaze to Margaery, “if that’s acceptable to you, Lady Margaery?”

Margaery smirks, tipping her head graciously, having gotten what she wanted.

“And you, Lady Sansa?” the King continues, to everyone’s surprise, “what is it you want?”

Sansa eyes snap to his, stunned he would even ask.

“There is nothing that I want,” she says eventually, quietly, before she remembers herself and adds, “your Grace.”

He looks like he doesn’t believe her, and when she averts her gaze, she still feels the heat of his eyes.

Sansa doesn’t _mean_ to eavesdrop, but after the feast, she catches wind of a conversation between King Jon and Lord Robb.

They’re discussing something in one of the dimly lit hallways and Sansa’s eyes widen before she fits herself in a hidden alcove, melting into the stone.

“And how exactly do you intend to explain the presence of Lady Margaery?” the Commander is asking, his voice lined with amusement, “she’s likely to attract an eye or two, both of them belonging to Cersei, and you know as well as I do she doesn’t need any more _friends_.”

“I do not _intend_ to explain anything,” Jon’s voice sounds low and gruff and impatient, as though Robb should know better, “Cersei is my Queen. She will do as I command.”

It sounds like Robb clicks his tongue and Sansa can imagine him tipping his head to the side.

“Perhaps you should bring them both back to Kings Landing,” he says, his tone turning suggestive, “Lady Sansa is a beauty too – and you could have them both in your bed. Two pretty roses wrapped around your cock.”

Sansa’s eyes widen at the lewd words, her chest suddenly feeling too tight, and she practically _feels_ the King’s growl.

“Enough,” it’s all low, Northern gruff, and she inexplicably squeezes her thighs together, “off with you, Robb.”

Robb just laughs heartily, a musical sound that bounces off the walls, but Sansa doesn’t find it funny at all.

The next morning, she’s reading in the gardens when she hears footsteps approaching.

More accurately, she hears the musical lilt of Margaery’s voice when she’s flirting, and she struggles not to roll her eyes.

She closes her book, standing up and clutching it to her chest, but before she can disappear, her sister turns the corner, flanked either side by the King and Robb.

She’s chatting away about the beauty of the Reach and Highgarden, but Robb looks more engrossed than the King does, and they all stop when they notice her.

“Sister,” Margaery drawls, moving over to her and taking her hands, “I was just telling King Jon and Lord Robb about Garth Greenhand and the founding of Highgarden,”

“Aye, and I should like to see more of your beautiful home,” Robb says, taking a step towards them and extending his arm, “perhaps we can continue our tour and Lady Sansa can keep the King company?”

Sansa’s eyes widen in surprise and Margaery looks surprised too, her mouth pinching slightly. She takes his arm nonetheless and Sansa can’t quite read her look, somehow both disappointed and intrigued at the same time, and Robb’s smirk is triumphant as he leads her away.

Then it’s just Sansa and King Jon and she clutches the book to her chest tighter.

“What are you reading?” he asks eventually, quietly, his hands clasped behind his back.

Sansa feels a heat that has nothing to do with the sunny weather crawl up her neck.

“It’s silly,” she dismisses nervously, but he merely tips his head and waits for her to elaborate, “a tale of handsome princes, chivalry, love – all that. Just a story. I wouldn’t want it for myself. I want a quiet life.”

The King’s lips twitch under his beard.

“So there’s no handsome prince waiting for you, then?” he asks, almost teasing, “no suitors?”

She blushes again, burning under the question.

“No, not yet,” she says, “I mean, there have been a few… but none that have stuck. Father wants to marry off Margaery first.”

She steers the topic back to her, back to safe ground, because _she’s_ the one he’s supposed to be interested in. Even if that notion still makes her feel a little queasy. Even more so, now she’s met him.

“My brother seems rather taken with her.”

Her lips purse into a tense smile; she imagines this isn’t the impression Margaery was supposed to make. Robb wasn’t her intended target.

“She’s very beautiful,” she settles on a diplomatic reply.

“Aye, she is,” the King concedes with a small tip of his head, before he adds, “as are you.”

He doesn’t say it like the perfumed lords of the south might. There’s no ulterior motive, no lewdness or flirtation to his tone. He merely says it like it’s a fact and her cheeks flush again.

“I was of the understanding that Lord Robb is your cousin,” she says, trying to change the subject.

King Jon nods, taking a moment to extend his hand and gesture towards the bench she had been sitting on, before he answers. 

She sits down and he follows and her skin bristles with unease. She can hardly believe she’s sitting next to the _King of the Seven Kingdoms,_ and she fights to keep her pulse under control.

“Aye, but we were raised as brothers,” he explains, “I didn’t find out who my real mother and father were until I was older, and by then, I couldn’t think of him as anything else. Same with my others, Bran and Rickon, and my sister Arya.”

“Do you miss Winterfell?”

A melancholy expression flickers over his features then and he gives a sigh.

“Every day,” he admits, “the south is too hot, too stifling. And the games these southerners play… the North is a simpler place.”

She searches his face, looking at him, _seeing_ him. She feels like she can read him unsettlingly well, and she doesn’t feel as intimidated as she maybe should.

“You never wanted to be King,” she says, _breathes,_ without even meaning to. It’s almost like she was thinking out loud and perhaps she shouldn’t be making such assumptions.

He arches a brow, surprised by her candour.

“Forgive me, your Grace,” she stumbles slightly, “I just — it seems to me that you are… unsuited to the politics of the south. I do not say that to be rude, you seem a good King. Everyone says how brave and merciful you are… that the Kingdom is flourishing under your rule in a way it hasn’t for centuries. But — I can see you yearn for a simpler life. I get the impression that you claimed your birth-right because you felt it was the right thing to do, because it was your duty and responsibility, not because you wanted power. Perhaps you do not want to be King at all, but would rather live out a simpler life in the North. That is very unusual in a ruler.”

He married Cersei out of duty too — because the Lannisters are the richest and most powerful house in Westeros, and it’s easier to have them on side, than to have them as an enemy. But she doesn’t say this. It feels too personal, and she doesn’t think she can push things _that_ far.

She realises the King is staring at her, looking half surprised, half impressed.

“You are very perceptive, my lady,” he says quietly, and then stands.

“I hope I haven’t offended you, your Grace,” Sansa says quickly, squinting against the sun as his form casts a prominent shadow, and she watches his mouth twitch under his beard.

“Not at all. I appreciate your honesty. I often find myself surrounded by fools and flatterers… your insight is refreshing.”

She feels herself blush again, burning under his compliment and his gaze, and as she stands, she suddenly notices a tiny bird at her feet. It seems to be pecking slightly at her shoe and she smiles down at it gently.

“You like birds? Animals?”

She glances at him, clearing her throat.

“Oh, yes. Very much,” she says, “and you?”

A melancholy expression flickers over his face before he gets himself in check.

“Aye, I have a direwolf back home,” she notices the way he says _home,_ not Winterfell or North, “his name is Ghost. I miss him very much.”

“You didn’t want to bring him with you to Kings Landing?”

“Wolves have no place in the south,” he says gently and she gets the impression they’re not talking about Ghost at all.

“But other than that…” she doesn’t know why she asks it; it’s just suddenly very important to her and she burns to know, “are you happy?”

He looks surprised by her question, like no-one’s ever taken the time to ask, and it takes him a moment to answer.

“Not really,” he says eventually, achingly honest, “can you ever be happy if you’re not free?”

“You do not consider yourself free?”

He smiles then, but Sansa finds it a beautiful and sad smile.

“I am a King.”

He says simply, and then he leaves her alone to think about his answer.

On the morning the King is due to leave Highgarden, Sansa finds herself waking up with a strange sense of disappointment.

She has come to enjoy his presence, the calm air he seems to carry with him. She’s only known him for the space of a single conversation, yet she feels like she understands him. She feels a connection, a burning under the skin, and it frightens her as much as it intrigues her.

She stands in the courtyard as they say goodbye, the King and his entourage moving down the line of nobles.

From her position in the line, she watches her brother and sister and both of them seem equally enamoured with the King. They also seem enamoured with Lord Robb, their eyes locked on both men, and Sansa fights the urge to order them to put their tongues back in their mouths.

King Jon reaches Margaery first and he takes her hand, placing a gentle kiss on it. Margaery smiles flirtatiously, batting her eyelashes, and her hand stays suspended by his mouth for a beat too long.

As the King shakes Loras’ hand, smoothly nodding at his bow, Sansa cranes her neck and tries to listen to Lord Robb’s interaction with Margaery.

He’s kissing her hand too but his mouth is definitely lingering, and when he pulls back, his expression dances with mischief.

“I look forward to seeing you at court, Lady Margaery.”

“I am already counting the days,” she dips into a bow, “my Lord.”

He smirks, arching a brow slightly, before he continues down the line and she _swears_ she’s never seen Margaery blush like that before.

When King Jon reaches her, Sansa can’t quite read his expression.

He doesn’t speak as he takes her hand, planting a kiss on it. His lips are soft and they spark heat throughout her entire body, and when he pulls back, there’s an empty ache where he left his kiss. She shakes it off, giving him a tense smile as he moves to her father.

The King plants a hand on his shoulder and leans in to murmur something in his ear. She can’t hear what he’s saying but her father’s eyes widen and flash with surprise before he’s nodding and dipping into a bow.

She watches the King mount his horse, watches as it fusses between his thighs. He uses his voice, strong and commanding, to calm it until it stills. All the while, his eyes are on her, an ice that burns, and she doesn’t miss how Margaery’s brow quirks suspiciously.

He gives her one more indecipherable look before he drags his eyes away, tugging at the reigns and kicking the horse into a trot.

She realises she’s sad to see him go and she tells herself to stop being so ridiculous.

After-all, how can you be upset over losing something you never had?

“Girls, come with me,” Mace orders when the King and his entourage are gone.

Sansa and Margaery follow him to a quiet, dimly lit hallway, and wait for his news.

“Margaery, you will ride to Kings Landing in a moon’s time to join the royal court.”

It’s news they already knew, but Margaery smiles nonetheless, giving her sister’s hands a squeeze.

Sansa’s lips twitch but it’s not quite a smile. She wants more for her sister than to be a mistress, used and tossed aside when the King is done. She thinks her sister is mistaken, that she will _never_ be his Queen, because Cersei Lannister is powerful and will not give up her crown that easily.

But for now, she stays quiet and lets her sister have this.

“Sansa, I have news for you too.”

Sansa sees a matching expression of confusion on her sister’s face.

“You will be going with her.”

Sansa’s eyes widen, her stomach dropping.

“What?”

Mace’s smile sets her teeth on edge.

“I don’t know what you said to him, but King Jon has requested that you go to the capital too. Well done, Sansa, I’m so proud of you.”

 _Proud of me for what?_ Sansa wants to ask, but before she can say a word, Margaery is throwing her hands back like she’s burned her and storming off.

“Margaery!” Sansa pinches her skirts at the thighs and rushes after her. Her legs are longer, but Margaery’s anger makes her faster, and Sansa struggles to keep up.

Finally, she manages to grab her shoulder and turn her around.

“What did you say to him?” her sister seethes, anger flashing through her bright eyes.

“Nothing!” Sansa insists, her voice a pitch higher, “we had _one_ conversation in the gardens. I don’t know why he requested that I come to Kings Landing. You know I want no part of it.”

“I don’t know that,” she narrows her eyes, giving a harsh shrug, “ _all_ I know is that a man who didn’t know who you were… is obviously so smitten with you after this one conversation that he wants you at court. You’re going to ruin _everything._ You just couldn’t let me have this, could you?”

“He is not _smitten_ with me,” she insists, her cheeks bursting into flames at the thought, “and I haven’t done anything. I never meant to ruin things for you, Margaery."

“ _Please_ ,” Margaery rolls her eyes, “you’ve always been jealous of me. And now you’ve found the perfect opportunity to become father’s favourite.”

Sansa’s anger spikes, sick of defending herself when she’s done nothing wrong.

“I never wanted any part of your ridiculous plan,” she fumes, “I don’t want to go to Kings Landing, I don’t want to be father’s favourite and I certainly don’t want to be the King's mistress. I’ll do my duty for this family, but I’ll be sure to stay out of your way.”

She leaves Margaery as furious as she found her.

The afternoon before she’s set to leave for Kings Landing, Sansa seeks her grandmother’s council.

Olenna Tyrell is the smartest person she knows, probably one of the smartest people in all Seven Kingdoms, and every time Sansa feels lost, she turns to her. She always listens and she always makes her feel better because she always says the right thing.

“I don’t want to leave you,” Sansa says as they sit in the gardens, their hands entwined on the table between them. 

Olenna’s smile crinkles her eyes and she grips her hand tighter.

“I know, my love, but this is a great honour.”

“But why has it been bestowed upon _me_?” Sansa asks with a grumble, “Margaery was supposed to go – _alone_. I have no place there.”

“Seems to me the King will find you a place,” Olenna says with a strange, knowing edge to her tone, “be careful, my Sansa. The Starks are a good family, but Starks are not all you will find in Kings Landing. There will be lions amongst the wolves, and you must protect yourself.”

Sansa frowns, swallowing past the dryness in her throat.

“I wish you could come with us. You’ve always kept us safe.”

Her grandmother smiles, her kind eyes shining.

“I know, but you are girls no longer. You are women grown. What are our words?”

Sansa lips twitch into a smile, before she gently, simply, recites, “growing strong.”

“Shit words,” Olenna mutters with an eye roll, “but ours nonetheless – and we make do. Be strong, Sansa. Guard yourself. Hold your cards close to your chest so they can never hurt you.”

She nods, before bringing their entwined hands to her lips. She places a fierce kiss on them and grips them tighter.

“Perhaps I can focus on my painting and blend into the background,” Sansa wonders hopefully but she notices how Olenna’s expression twists, “after-all, it’s Margaery we hope will seduce the King.”

To her surprise, Olenna lets out a scoff.

“He will not touch her.”

“What?” Sansa says, stunned, “why would you say that? Everyone loves Margaery, every man falls in love with her.”

“King Jon is not like every man. He is gruff and loyal and _Northern_ ,” she rolls her eyes, “and Northerners have little time for fancy flourishes or dramatics.”

Sansa considers this, thinks of Margaery’s wild nature, so extravagant and calculating, and hopes her grandmother is wrong.

“Father won’t be pleased if that’s true.”

“Perhaps… perhaps not,” Olenna shrugs, “Margaery will not be the only girl in Kings Landing who could advance the Tyrell’s position.”

She tips a pointed brow then and it takes a moment for Sansa to understand her meaning.

“ _Me_?” she gapes, “you can’t be serious.”

“We’ll see,” her grandmother says cryptically, before she stands and walks over to her, “stay open to every possibility, Sansa. Consider everything. No matter where he sits, that man is a Northerner through and through – and it may be up to you to see if a rose can grow in the snow.”

Sansa stares at her, unable to think, unable to even _breathe._ She embraces her stiffly, the cogs in her head turning, and whispers a goodbye into her head dress.

She begins to walk away before she seemingly remembers something.

“And Sansa?” she starts, “your sister… watch her with that Commander.”

She tips a pointed brow and Sansa’s back to confused, recognising the reference to Robb Stark, but not quite understanding it. But her grandmother has always seen things before they come to pass, and she’s a woman best listened to.

Sansa just hopes she’s wrong this time – about Robb _and_ King Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a 5000-6000 word oneshot and it somehow ended up being 20,600 words 🙃🔫 
> 
> I forced myself to finish the whole thing before I posted anything, because I seem to have slipped into the habit of not finishing WIPs :( Couldn't decide whether to post it all as a oneshot or two shot, but thought it might be easier to break it up a bit! Hope you enjoyed the first chapter and it wasn't too hard to imagine this alternate timeline/universe. As always, comments are so welcome.


	2. Chapter 2

  
The ride to Kings Landing isn’t long, but Sansa feels as though she's journeying to Essos.

Margaery won’t talk to her, staring stubbornly out of the carriage window, and she wasn’t allowed to bring her art supplies or many books and she misses her friends and home already. 

The reception the sisters receive from the Queen is even colder than she expected.

Cersei Lannister is as beautiful as everyone says she is and Sansa feels as though she should tell her as much. As they stand before her and the King in the throne room of the Red Keep, the words lodge in her throat. 

She’s older than her husband by more than a decade, but her face is pretty and devoid of wrinkles, emerald eyes shining atop sharp cheekbones. Her skin is as golden as her hair, falling in thick waves down her shoulders, and she looks as fierce and formidable as the lion on her family’s banners.

“Welcome to Kings Landing, ladies,” King Jon says, wearing an expression far warmer than his wife’s, and the sisters dip into a bow.

“Thank you, your Grace,” Margaery speaks, weaving her honey words, “we’re happy to be here.”

“I’m sure you are,” the Queen replies dryly, ignoring the displeased expression the King throws her way, “tell me, what talents do you have?”

Margaery’s eyes slide subtly to Sansa, an unspoken question in them, and Sansa stares back, just as lost.

“Talents, your Grace?”

Cersei tips her head to the side, her cold eyes flicking up and down Margaery’s form.

“Well, my husband must have seen something in you, to bring you back with him from Highgarden. A special gift, perhaps? Something he thought might please me… aside from your obvious youth and beauty.”

Her voice drips with icy contempt and Sansa notices the way the King bristles beside her, his jaw locking tight.

“It was my father’s request that I come to the capital,” Margaery replies smoothly, not buckling under the pressure, not even faltering. From where he stands next to the King, Sansa could swear Robb Stark looks impressed, “as a gift for our aid during the war, he asked for this. My brother Loras is also set to join the Kingsguard.”

“Fine,” the Queen spits the word like an appleseed through her teeth, before her unimpressed eyes land on Sansa, “and you? Did your father ask for you to come to court too?”

The King definitely bristles then, shifting in his seat, and his dark eyes lock on Sansa.

She doesn’t know what to say.

She’s not like Margaery, able to think on the spot, to manipulate and influence and forge her words like weapons.

More than that, she doesn’t _know_ why she’s here, and she can’t lie. She loves to draw and paint, but she doubts that would be of any interest to the Queen, and certainly not a reason for the King to request her presence.

“No,” Sansa whispers, before clearing her throat, “he didn’t, your Grace.”

“You _must_ be talented then,” Cersei insists, a cruel glint to her eye, “I wonder at what… poetry, perhaps?”

Sansa shakes her head, heat flaring under her skin.

“Music?”

She can’t play an instrument so she shakes her head again, feeling terribly ordinary.

“Cersei, enough,” she hears the King murmur.

Sunlight streams in through the high arched windows, glinting off his rings. It draws attention to his anger, how his hands curl into fists on the arms of his throne.

The Queen continues, undeterred.

“Singing, then. Come _—_ sing.”

She waves a hand, gesturing to a musician who obediently strikes up a well known tune on his lute. 

“No,” Sansa whispers and even Margaery winces, looking sorry for her, “please, your Grace, I can’t—”

“ _Sing._ ”

Cersei’s voice cuts through her like ice – and it’s not a request.

Sansa closes her eyes, and then she opens her mouth to sing. She’s not very good at the best of times, the talent, as with so many others, lying with Margaery. With fear strangling her throat, she sounds worse still – and it’s clear to everyone in the room the King has not brought her here for her voice.

She’s not particularly clever or witty or funny. She can’t sing or play instruments and she’s only average at kneedlework.

She’s here because the King _wants_ her to be here – and it’s not for any reason that would please a wife.

“I said, _enough_.”

He stands then, his voice a commanding growl, and Sansa’s mouth snaps shut.

The hall falls into silence, the air thrumming awkwardly, and Cersei’s rage is obvious.

“You’re so very predictable,” she snarls at him eventually, before pinching her skirts at the thighs and standing up, “ _husband._ ”

Then she storms off and leaves her anger behind.

“Why was the Queen so cruel to me?”

Sansa whispers that evening as Margaery brushes her hair. It’s still somewhat awkward between them, her sister having not forgiven her for what she perceives to be a slight, but she sighs anyway.

Olenna taught them to look out for each other, _always_ , and their grandmother is the only person Margaery listens to.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Sansa raises a brow, glancing at her in the mirror’s reflection.

Margaery rolls her eyes slightly, putting the brush down on the dressing table. She gently smooths her auburn hair, her fingers raking through the soft strands.

"The King desires you, Sansa.”

The air seems too thin around her, choking her, and her stomach clenches uncomfortably.

“Margaery…”

“Everyone in that hall knew it. If they didn’t from the moment you walked in, they did once you opened your mouth.”

She laughs _—_ a small, musical sound _—_ and begins to plait Sansa’s hair.

Sansa can barely process the strands being tugged and pulled, as shaken as she is by the words spoken out loud. It’s like her sister has breathed them into existence, the fact she’s tried to deny since the day he rode into Highgarden, and she fights the strange urge to cry.

She never meant for things to get so _complicated._

She wanted a simple life with an ordinary husband, and King Jon Stark is the furthest thing from ordinary.

“I’m sure the Queen doesn’t love him,” Margaery continues speaking as her fingers work, “she probably only loves those three brats she has and that throne, but for a wife, it still must be difficult. You’re a threat.”

 _A threat to Queen Cersei Lannister,_ Sansa almost laughs at the absurdity of the prospect.

“I don’t want to be,” she insists, “this isn’t the life I would have chosen for myself.”

“I know, Sansa,” Margaery sounds bored, impatient, as she finishes the plait and drapes it over her sister’s right shoulder, “but it is the life you have been given.”

She places her hands on her shoulders then, and her fingers feel too tight, too commanding.

When she lifts her eyes to the mirror, Margaery’s reflection stares back at her, hard and unyielding.

“I’m not giving up, dear sister,” she warns, her voice deceptively light and casual, “and you know I always get what I want.”

Her hands casually massage Sansa’s shoulders, but it feels like a threat.

The King comes to her that evening, once Margaery has retired to her own chambers.

His knock is steady and sure and when she opens her door, her eyes widen at the sight of him.

Somehow, he looks even more powerful here in Kings Landing. He exudes a kind of quiet strength, imposing and authoritative. She maintains eye contact as she opens the door wider in silent acknowledgement, and he brushes past her to walk inside.

He doesn’t concern himself with pleasantries.

“I wanted to apologise for today,” he says, “for the Queen’s behaviour.”

Sansa shakes her head, brushing it off even though it had greatly humiliated her.

“That’s not necessary,” she says quietly, “I just — I can’t sing.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“No, you really can’t,” he says, but his voice is kind.

She feels a laugh bubble behind her lips and she purses them, turning her eyes to the floor.

“I can draw,” she offers suddenly, the revelation falling from her mouth in a rush of breath, “I love to paint and draw. I don’t suppose the Queen would find that very interesting though.”

He tips his head to the side, seemingly taking this information in.

“Did you bring canvases with you?” he asks, his eyes briefly flitting around the bare room, “paint, paintbrushes?”

“We didn’t have much space in the carriage,” she says, a euphemism for Margaery’s dresses and makeup and jewellery taking up all the room.

The King merely nods, clasping his hands behind his back.

“Well,” he clears his throat and the husky note to his voice makes her shiver, “I came to apologise, and I’ve done that, so I’ll go.”

He gives her a nod and turns to leave.

“Your Grace?” she calls after him, the words escaping without her permission.

He turns with an arched brow, waiting patiently.

“Why did you bring me here?”

He falters slightly, like he didn’t expect her to ask, and she watches his chest rise and fall with each breath.

“I suppose I… saw something in you.”

“Like what?”

He glances away from her, his brows furrowed, like he can’t quite find the words. He looks irritated by his own reticence, so very restrained and reserved and _Northern_ , and she marvels again at how different he is from the romantic lords of her childhood.

“I spent half my life thinking I was a bastard,” he says eventually, “I know a little of what it is to miss your mother, to be second in line for your father’s love. To constantly lie in the shadow of a sibling.”

She bristles slightly at the claim, at how well he’s read her. She’s been second to Margaery her whole life, yearning for a mother she only knew for two years before a fever took her. She’s always felt like a dog, lapping up Mace’s praise, desperate for any scraps of his left over attention. It causes her a great deal of sorrow, and if Jon’s been in even half the pain she has, she grieves for him.

“It seems you are very perceptive too.”

He smiles slightly but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Goodnight, Sansa.”

She dips into a little bow.

“Goodnight, my King,” she murmurs, trying not to dwell on the warm feeling she gets when she calls him _hers_.

“Jon.”

“I’m sorry?”

He smiles again, this time soft and genuine.

“You can call me Jon.”

“ _Jon_.”

She feels her cheeks heat, and she likes the way that sounds even more.

Perhaps he does too, because his sharp grey eyes seem to flash with _something,_ and then he’s leaving her chambers as quickly as he entered them.

The next morning, when she returns from breaking fast, there’s a blank canvas angled towards the balcony, and vibrant paints and paintbrushes surrounding it.

She stares for a moment, her breath caught in her throat, before she brings her hand up to her mouth and hides her smile behind it.

The next time Sansa sees the King, she thanks him for his gift.

He waves it off, thinking it means nothing when really, it means everything.

They’re in the gardens, the sun shining down and glinting off the direwolf pin on his chest, and she thinks he looks melancholy and strong and very, _very_ beautiful.

Her eyes drift over him and she notices there are no dragons adorning his armour, no signs of his father’s house, drenched in fire and blood.

“You do not consider yourself a Targaryen?” she asks him, hoping she hasn’t overstepped her boundaries.

He doesn’t look offended, but he does look a little surprised she would mention it.

“Not particularly,” he says evenly, “I was raised as a Stark. Whoever Rhaegar was, he left little of himself in me.”

From her knowledge of the house, Sansa agrees. The Targaryens had a reputation for their fury, always burning too hot, too bright, and many of them slipped into madness.

King Jon seems the opposite, every inch a wolf, temperate and measured and fair like a Stark.

“A Targaryen probably wouldn’t have spared the Lannisters,” she points out quietly, her tone a little cautious.

He stares at her, a humourless laugh falling from his lips.

“Aye, probably not,” he concedes, “there were many who didn’t want me to.”

“Really?”

She wants to hear more, her passion for history and stories flaring to life. She wants to hear about his rebellion, the Battle for the Iron Throne, how he cut down Robert Baratheon and reclaimed a birthright he didn’t even want.

Legend sticks to him and Robb like wildfire — the White Wolf and the Young Wolf, riding into battle with their matching direwolves by their sides. It’s not a life Robb imagined for himself either, having been groomed to be Lord of Winterfell one day, a title that stays with his father in the North.

The songs and tales follow Jon everywhere goes, but she wants to know _him._

“I think a lot of people yearned for a more dramatic fight, something _bloodier,_ ” he shrugs, “people have their inclinations, it’s only natural. Maybe they saw it as a chance for some sort of fitting revenge, a parallel, that I could do to Robert’s wife what he did to Rhaegar’s. Of course, Robert didn’t kill Elia, or even order it, but I’m sure you can appreciate the sentiment.”

Sansa grimaces, remembering what she’s heard of the terrible fate that befell Rhaegar’s first wife. Perhaps there were those who wished to see Cersei Lannister split in half by a greatsword, Joffrey Baratheon’s head smashed against a wall, Myrcella and Tommen murdered in their beds. 

“That was never an option,” Sansa says — a statement, not a question — because she’s coming to understand the sort of man he is.

“No,” he agrees, “I married her instead.”

He arches a brow and smirks, his dark eyes sparkling in the sun.

“And Robert?”

“Robert was a great warrior. There was a time I even admired him. After-all, he was my father’s – _uncle’s_ – friend, and I grew up on stories of his conquests and brilliance. But his age and laziness made him weak, and his arrogance weaker still. I saw how he’d practically bankrupted the realm, how his people suffered, and I knew I had to take back what was mine. I knew I could do better.”

Sansa smiles, intrigued and a little enamoured by him.

“By the time we got to him, Robb had easily taken out dozens of his men, and he was so fat, he could barely lift that famous warhammer. I was almost disappointed at how easy it was.”

His mouth quirks again and for the first time, she notices the long scar that dissects his eye. With his curls half pulled back in a leather band, the sun glints off it, also emphasising his strong cheekbones and jaw. She wonders if Robert gave it to him, but she doesn’t ask. She has something more important to say.

“If it means anything, I think it’s irrelevant how you style yourself. Stark, Targaryen, Snow… there’s one thing that’s clear.”

He tips his head to the side, his steel grey eyes flickering over her.

“Aye, what’s that?”

“You’re a good man.”

She watches his eyes flash with something akin to appreciation and his answering smile flares an ache in her chest.

Sansa is unsurprised that King Jon’s nameday is celebrated with a tourney.

It’s Tyrion who insists on it, declaring it to be good for the people and morale. The King relents, but demands the winnings for the joust, melee and archery contest are lowered, determined not to make the same mistakes as his predecessor. Sansa knows that Robert Baratheon left the Crown three million gold pieces in debt, borrowing not only from the Lannisters, the Iron Bank of Braavos and several Tyroshi trading cartels, but her own family too.

And so, forty thousand gold dragons for the winner of the joust is reduced to ten, and he’s such a beloved King, no-one seems to mind. Outside, the surrounding roads, inns and the city of Kings Landing bustle with energy. From where she sits next to Margaery, Sansa can hear the blare of trumpets and smell roasting meats.

To his sisters’ delight, Loras has already defeated Ser Jaime Lannister, and they clap as he triumphantly trots down the line. Sansa glances to the royal couple and sees the King’s relaxed expression, his wife’s twisted in displeasure next to him.

Petyr Baelish is sat on Sansa's other side, too close for her liking, and she tries not to engage in conversation.

The Queen’s twin storms off, the fury at being beaten vibrating off him in waves, and Loras trots around some more, loving the attention and love of the people. Sansa rolls her eyes at her brother's arrogance, but a smile tugs at her lips.

“Come then, _Knight of Flowers,_ ” Robb Stark stands, projecting his voice in a theatrical boom, “let’s give you some real competition.”

The King’s brow arches as he watches his brother-turned-cousin make his way down the stand, gesturing for his horse. The crowd buzzes excitedly as Robb armours up, mounting his impressive chestnut stallion. His gorget is emblazoned with two entwined wolves, a stark contrast to Loras’ armour, elaborately engraved with flowers.

Loras smirks, making brief eye contact with his sisters, before he trots back to the other side.

Margaery smiles at the scene, delighted, and sits forward in her seat. Sansa can’t help but notice how she thrives and _glows_ in the capital, exactly where she’s supposed to be. She’s almost jealous.

When both men are seated on their horses, lances in hand, they wait for the signal and then they’re off.

They kick their horses into a canter, showers of sand and dirt spraying up around them as they go.

Sansa holds her breath, part exhilarated, part terrified for her brother. Loras is one of the best knights in all Seven Kingdoms, one of the only men who have managed to defeat the formidable Jaime Lannister, but Robb is Commander of the Kingsguard and highly skilled himself.

As they approach each other, Sansa hears her sister’s breath hitch. Their fingers twitch, as though about to reach for each other, when the two men collide. They hit each other’s chests at the same time, the clash of steel mingling with the shocked gasps of the crowd.

Both men stay on their horses, slowing to a trot.

“A draw,” Baelish drawls from beside her before she can ask.

Sansa nods, her eyes fixed on her brother.

“Again!” Robb opens his helmet to roar, before slamming it down.

Loras barely has time to recover before Robb’s charging at him again, lance ready. He rights himself quickly, kicking his own horse into action, but this time, the Stark’s blow is more powerful. The crowd gasps as Loras is struck hard in the side and thrown from his horse.

The sisters jump up at the same time, terror written on their faces. Margaery is the one to grab her hand and Sansa holds on just as tight, fingers entwining with hers.

The King looks eerily calm, his dark eyes casually flickering over the scene as people panic around him.

Before the dread can properly set in, Sansa sees Loras stand on shaky feet. He takes his helmet off and winces a smile. Sansa closes her eyes and sighs in relief, knowing the brave face is for them. He wants his sisters to know he’s alright.

Four jousts and four victories later, Robb Stark is finally declared champion and permitted to crown his queen of love and beauty.

Clearly loved by the people and the young ladies in particular, the crowd seems captivated by him, waiting with bated breath, as he trots down the line.

Finally, he stops before the Tyrell’s.

Sansa’s eyes widen, her gaze sliding to Margaery next to her.

As Robb lifts the slot of his helmet, revealing the striking blue of his eyes, Sansa watches her sister’s cheeks blossom into heat. It surprises her, because Margaery is _always_ in control. Always so unaffected, she wears her mask like a weapon. Yet here she is, leaning over to accept Robb Stark’s favour as he dedicates his victory to her, blushing as pretty as the rose they say she is.

Robb grins triumphantly, his eyes only for Margaery as her fingers run over the queen of beauty’s laurel in her lap. It’s a crown of winter roses, blue as frost, and Sansa wonders again at the tangled web her sister is weaving. 

Robb turns his attention to the King who seems unfazed by the turn of events. If Margaery had hoped he would be mad with jealousy, she seems sorely mistaken.

“What do you say, your Grace?” Robb booms, riling up the crowd again, “one turn, just for fun?”

King Jon’s mouth twitches under his beard before he shakes his head.

“Not today, Robb.”

His voice is smooth, if a little cryptic, and even Queen Cersei’s brow arches in surprise.

“The King does not participate?” Sansa leans over slightly to ask Baelish.

“Oh, he does,” the man shrugs, “he’s formidable, rarely beaten. He’s bested Lord Robb many times. After-all… a joust is child’s play for the man they call the most skilled warrior the Kingdom has ever seen.”

“But he will not ride today?”

“No,” he drags his eyes to hers, his voice heavy with implication, “I wonder why?”

“What are you doing?” Sansa asks later that afternoon, when they’re walking through the city with two guards to protect them, and Margaery stops to speak to a young peasant girl.

She leans down, smiling gently at her awed face, before she hands her the queen of beauty’s laurel.

“Thank you, my lady,” the girl breathes in a happy voice, dipping into an unsophisticated, unpractised curtsy.

As they walk away, Sansa arches a brow, looking at her sister expectantly.

“Well, I can’t keep it,” Margaery says like it’s obvious. She smiles at the gathered crowds, giving them a wave, and it’s unusual for noble ladies to do so. Sansa gets the impression she wants them to love her, so that they’ll welcome her with open arms when the King replaces his Queen with her.

“Why?”

She rolls her eyes, an exasperated scoff falling from her lips.

“Robb Stark is not for me,” she shakes her head and her voice is full of conviction, yet Sansa doesn’t miss the flicker of sadness that passes through her eyes, “I _will_ seduce the King, and a flirtation with his closest friend is not going to further that cause.”

“He’s in love with you.”

Margaery rolls her eyes again, toying with a ring on her finger. Sansa recognises it as a sign that she’s anxious, perhaps even lying.

She _knows_ Margaery and she can see she’s torn, torn between her ambition and her attraction to Robb, perhaps even her loyalty now she’s noticed her sister’s connection to the King.

“He’s not _in love_ with me,” she insists eventually, “what he feels is merely lust. There’s a difference. You are young.”

“But I’m not stupid and I’m not blind. That man is infatuated with you, Margaery, and I think the feeling is mutual.”

Margaery grows quiet then, introspective, and Sansa can see her jaw locking tight.

“You have to admit, he is your type,” Sansa says quietly, cautious of stirring her famous temper, “confident and bold. Most men, you would eat alive, but he could keep up. Don’t you think the King is rather… reserved for you?”

Before, she wanted to dissuade her sister from this plan because no good could come of it, because it would never work and she would be tossed aside and ruined. Now, the thought of the King making love to her sister makes Sansa feel sick on a level that’s far more personal.

Her skin prickles uneasily, her chest too tight, and a wave of an emotion she refuses to recognise as jealousy kicks at her stomach.

“Yes, I suppose he is very brooding,” Margaery’s answering, her nose scrunching slightly, “dark and attractive in a very different way. Far more like you than me. But we’ve been over this, Sansa. I want to be Queen.”

“We don’t always get what we want,” Sansa grumbles, making sure to keep her voice quiet so the guards can’t hear, “despite what you say. He’ll never divorce Cersei. He’s too loyal, too honourable.”

It’s the main thing she likes about him, how very different he is from the Kings who have come before.

She’s noticed it even more so since they’ve been in Kings Landing, how he cares little for extravagant displays of brutality and power. He sits with his people, breaks fast with his people, _bleeds_ with his people. She’s heard about his ferocity in battle and she’s watched him mete out justice and while he’s undoubtably good at killing, he doesn’t seem to enjoy it.

“He needs an heir,” Margaery contends, “a son. His reign will never be secure without it. With that lion in his bed, he’s going to wake up one day with a knife in his back, and that brat Joffrey will end up on the throne. You know what they say about him and his siblings, don’t you? That they’re born of _incest._ ”

“Margaery!” Sansa hisses in warning, her eyes flitting behind them to make sure the guards didn’t hear.

“It’s true! You’ve seen how close the Queen is to her brother. If _that’s_ happening right under the King’s nose, why shouldn’t he have a little fun too?”

“They’re just rumours,” Sansa murmurs, though she knows the rumours are more than likely fact, “and even if you succeed… any son you gave him would be a bastard.”

“He was a bastard himself at one point. His own father left his wife for another woman,” Margaery argues, “something tells me this isn’t the real reason for your disapproval.”

Sansa burns under the accusation, her words pressing too close.

“I’m just worried for you, sister.”

“I’m sure,” Margaery says dryly, “just remember you didn’t want this, Sansa. _You_ said no.”

“I know,” Sansa says quietly and she still doesn’t want it, even if part of her does want _him,_ “I’m just saying be careful, Margaery, and perhaps Robb Stark could make you happy.”

Margaery pauses for a moment, before she sighs.

“Even _if…_ ” she start cautiously, “he’s Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Forbidden to father children or hold lands or take a wife. His allegiance is to the King. To obey his commands, to keep his secrets, to counsel him when requested and to keep silent when not. To defend his name and honour. It would be just as impossible.”

“Perhaps in the traditional sense,” Sansa shrugs, “but Jon is not a traditional King, nor Robb a traditional Commander. Rules can be bent, broken and changed. Stay open to every possibility, as grandmother says. Consider everything. You may find yourself surprised.”

“Walk with me,” the King says quietly that evening after the feast, as people drink and dance around them.

He extends his arm and Sansa’s eyes flit around the room, cautious of who’s watching, before she relents with a sigh. She takes his arm, trying to ignore that warmth that immediately spreads through her, and walks with him.

“Your name day celebrations were wonderful, your Grace,” she says eventually, still not entirely comfortable with calling him Jon, “I hope you’ve had a good day.”

He smiles down at her, softening that normally stoic and reserved expression.

“Thank you, Sansa. I have.”

There’s something she’s been meaning to ask the whole day, Petyr Baelish’s question playing on her mind, so she decides to get it over with quickly.

“Why didn’t you join in the joust? Lord Baelish said you often do.”

She’s not sure if it’s the question or the mention of Littlefinger’s name, but she watches a muscle near his ear tick as he clenches the strong line of his jaw.

“You should stay away from Petyr Baelish.”

She arches a brow. “I should?”

“Aye,” he rumbles, “he’s a talented and shrewd strategist, but I don’t trust him. You shouldn’t either. He’s been in love with my father’s – _uncle’s_ – wife since he was a boy. He has an inclination for redheads, and even when she was young, Catelyn was never as beautiful as you are.”

“He said the same about you,” it flies out of her mouth before she can stop it, his and Lord Varys’ words from when they first visited her in Highgarden swimming in her mind.

“I did not realise Baelish was so enamoured by my beauty,” he rumbles, his voice lined with amusement.

Sansa’s mouth twitches; she likes this side of him, a little less reserved, less brooding.

“That you have a penchant for redheads.”

“When did he say this?” he asks, raising a brow suspiciously.

“I can’t recall,” she lies, “I just remember thinking it odd. The Queen is blonde, after-all.”

“Aye, she is,” he says gruffly, almost awkwardly, “but he was probably referring to my first love, Ygritte. She was a wildling.”

“Wilding?”

Sansa has never heard this word. She says it slowly, curious at how it feels on her tongue.

His lips twitch, perhaps also curious at her reaction.

“The wildlings live north of the wall and have no interest in the lands governed by Kings. I was young. She had red hair. Kissed by fire, she said.”

“Was _she_ as beautiful as I am?” Sansa asks because she wants to know.

He looks at her for a moment, his dark gaze flickering over her face.

“No.”

He says it simply, a mere fact not meant to flatter or flourish, and she swallows past the lump in her throat.

“You loved her?”

“Aye, I loved her,” he murmurs, “but I lost her.”

She wants to ask more, wants to know what she was like, this girl who had known him inside and out. She bets she was brave and strong and wild. She suddenly wants him to see her that way too, not as a spoilt little rich girl who knows nothing of the real world.

But she can’t ask that.

“You haven’t answered my question,” she says instead, “why didn’t you joust with Robb?”

“Because I would have won.”

His answer is simple and Sansa huffs a laugh.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“If I win, I have to crown someone,” he says quietly, and Sansa’s heart pounds a little harder as she begins to understand, “obviously I normally give it to Cersei.”

“Of course,” she mumbles dully, “she is your Queen.”

“Aye, she is,” he says heavily and it sounds like a warning, “but I didn’t want to give it to her, so I thought it would be easier to not participate at all.”

Sansa pauses and he pauses too, looking at her with a guarded expression.

She should let this go.

She should let whatever _this_ is between them remain buried under implication, muted and denied.

She shouldn’t breathe life into it, because this is complicated and messy and everything she warned her sister against.

And yet, she finds herself asking—

“Who did you want to give it to?”

—and he blinks and cocks a brow, his expression heavy and deadly serious. They both know who, suffocating under the weight of this unspoken _thing_ between them, and it doesn’t need to be said.

The air suddenly feels very thin and she doesn’t _want_ this. She never wanted any part of it. She takes a step back, prepared to flee, to escape this conversation, when his hand darts out and curls around her elbow.

“Don’t walk away from me,” his voice is gentle but it’s an order nonetheless.

“People are looking,” she whispers, her cheeks bursting into heat, as a few people around them stop to watch curiously.

His top lip curls into a sort of frustrated snarl before he quickly glances around and pulls her away. He knows the hallways well, seemingly like the back of his hand, and before she knows it, she’s being pushed into a dimly lit alcove, surrounded by his body.

He smells like wood and smoke, wine from the feast and something sweeter, and she’s dizzy with it.

“You’re driving me mad,” he mutters, his eyes clenched shut.

She swallows, her own eyes drawn to his full lips.

“I haven’t done anything,” she says stubbornly, hot and aching and a little annoyed. If he wants her, she doesn’t want to be _blamed_ for it, like she’s some sort of siren and he can't control himself.

“That’s the point,” he murmurs lowly and when his eyes open, Sansa swears they’re a darker grey, “you haven’t… and yet you’re all I think about.”

Sansa purses her lips, her eyes and throat burning. His hands cage her in, resting either side of her head, and this is everything she feared, and everything she’s ever wanted, all at the same time.

“I can’t,” she whispers, feeling a fist around her heart.

He leans in closer, so close she can see the specks of violet in his eyes, can glimpse at the dragon underneath, and desire flares in the pit of her stomach.

“Why not?”

His voice is low, husky and deliciously Northern, and she rubs her thighs together to try and relieve the ache.

“You’re _married_ ,” she says painfully, “and the King.”

One of his hands travels from the wall to find purchase on her waist. It slides down, his strong palm covering her behind and he tugs her close. She bites out a gasp, her toes curling. He moulds her like clay, her thighs falling open so he can move between them. She feels all of him against her, all strong, hard muscle and she forgets how to _breathe._

“What if I wasn’t?” he murmurs hotly, “would you let me have you then?”

“Yes,” he tears her reply from her throat, an immediate gasp that’s more like a moan, and her thighs spread wider without her permission. Her cunt clenches around nothing, momentarily lost to pleasure before she comes to her senses, “but you are — and this is the life we have been given.”

She speaks with conviction, purposefully reminding herself of the words Margaery had told her, but her voice shakes and her eyes are glued to his mouth. His _mouth._ It should be a crime for a man to have lips like that, so pouty and full, and she wants nothing more than to feel them against hers.

He looks lost too, pupils dilated and hands gripping her ass and the stone wall beside her head, and despite her words, she pulls him closer still.

“I need to kiss you,” he breathes – not a want, a _necessity –_ before he adds, “just once.”

_Just once._

She should say no, she’s _going_ to say no, but _then_ —

“Yes,” she’s breathing instead, “kiss me.”

His mouth is on hers before she’s even finished the request.

His lips are as soft as she suspected, but he kisses like a conqueror — a _King_ — plundering her mouth. His tongue sweeps over her bottom lip and she blossoms for him, opening her mouth so he can slip it inside. It’s all hot silk, a perfect push and pull, and when their tongues tangle, she feels it between her legs. 

He swallows the little moan she makes, both hands coming up to cradle her face. His thumbs brush across her cheekbones, the kiss of steel from his rings cooling her flushed skin, and she feels her knees buckle.

She doesn’t have anything to compare it to, has never been kissed before, but she’s pretty sure it’s not always like _this._

His mouth slants over hers, taking what he wants, giving her what _she_ wants, and between heated kisses, he lets out a little moan of his own. It’s probably – _definitely –_ the hottest thing she’s ever heard and she wants to hear it again. She wants to hear it when he’s on top of her, moving inside her, his fingers, his tongue, his _cock._

Her hands find purchase on his chest. Through the muted haze of her desire, she hears the squeak of leather as her fingers curl into fists, pulling him closer.

He kisses her once, twice, three times more, gently tugging her bottom lip before letting her go. His forehead rests against hers, his chest heaving, his breath little pants against her lips.

She lets out a shaky breath, completely lost.

He shouldn’t have done that. She shouldn’t have let him do that.

Because now she’s tasted him, she can’t go back.

Queen Cersei finds her in the gardens the next morning.

Her brother Jaime stands by her side, speaking in hushed whispers, and Sansa pauses her painting, putting the brush down.

She tries to blend into the background but the Queen’s sharp eyes notice her immediately. She narrows her gaze, a calculating expression sweeping over her features, before she dismisses her brother and walks over to Sansa.

As he walks back to the castle, Jaime looks back twice, his face guarded and hesitant.

“What are you painting, little bird?”

Sansa’s eyes lift, squinting at the Queen’s silhouette against the afternoon sun. She already hates that nickname, doesn’t want to be thought of as something fragile and weak. Even a rose would be better, something that blossoms and grows strong.

At the back of her mind, she feels a strange sense of dread that the Queen will read her expression. She still feels the ghost of the King’s kiss on her lips, the way his hands had burned as they held her waist, the low timber of his voice as he growled his desire for her in her ear.

She worries the Queen will know where her husband has been placing his attentions, so she keeps her voice measured and polite, if a little practiced.

“Just a landscape, your Grace. Your home is very beautiful. I should like to send a piece to my grandmother back in Highgarden.”

Cersei’s mouth twists into an unkind smile.

“You’re just perfect, aren’t you?”

It doesn’t sound like a compliment, and Sansa shifts in her seat.

“I don’t know what you mean, your Grace.”

“I _mean…_ ” the Queen starts, a harder edge for her voice, “I can see straight through you. You hide your thorns well, and your sister may be more _obvious,_ but I know what you want.”

“I want to go home,” she says quietly, because she does. She wants that almost as much as she wants Jon, and it’s a desire she understands far more.

“You want my husband,” Cersei corrects in a blank voice.

Sansa stands, her jaw clenched tight, and tries to walk away. Cersei follows, her hands clasped behind her back.

“You know, I sought out a fortune teller in Lannisport once,” she’s speaking again, “she told me I would be Queen, as I always knew I would be. Then she told me another would come along… someone younger and more beautiful… to cast me aside and take all I hold dear.”

Sansa pauses, clutching her hands in-front of her.

“I was ten years old and infatuated with Rhaegar Targaryen,” she’s continuing, sounding almost annoyed with herself, “of course he would fall in love with Lyanna Stark, despite having his own wife, and that _bitch_ has followed me my whole life. My first husband loved her ghost more than he loved me – and my second husband is her son. It’s all rather complicated, don’t you think?”

“I don’t see what this has to do with me,” Sansa says tiredly.

“You’re _temporary_ ,” Cersei clarifies, “I was born to be Queen. Once he’s taken his fill, my husband’s fascination with you will fade. He may be more honourable on the surface, so much like a Stark, but he’s still a man – and they’re all the same. He’ll have you, you might even give him a bastard or two, but when all is said and done and the dust has settled, I’ll still be his Queen. I’m not giving up the throne.”

Her voice is a cold warning, one Sansa’s tired of listening to, and she snaps.

“Forcing him out of my bed would not bring him any closer to yours.”

Cersei looks as surprised at the words as Sansa is to say them, and the older woman narrows her gaze.

“Be careful, little bird,” she growls like the lion they say she is, “don’t play with me. I always win.”

Sansa sighs, because there are no winners in this game, and she watches as the Queen storms away.

  
Sansa realises just how far gone she is when she sees Margaery flirting with the King.

She’s trying not to stare at them over the rim of her cup, but she’s failing miserably. They’re in the great hall, a feast underway, and the Queen has long retired. Ser Jaime is missing too, but no-one seems to care.

Sansa certainly doesn’t, can’t even think about it, not when Margaery is running a finger down the King’s chest.

Her own fingers tighten around her cup and she downs the contents, grateful for the soothing taste as it makes its way down her throat. She lets a servant fill her glass, ignoring the way her eyes widen as she drinks it again and insists on another top up.

She barely notices as someone slumps into the seat next to her, releasing a heavy sigh.

“Your sister is a tease,” Robb Stark grumbles, holding his own cup full of ale.

Sansa huffs humourlessly, unable to tear her eyes away from the girl in question. The King seems relaxed, his brow arched in what looks like amusement, and he’s not encouraging her, but he’s not pushing her away either.

“Really?” Sansa says dryly, “I think it’s pretty clear what she wants.”

Robb follows her eye-line, pausing for a moment before he chuckles.

“ _That?_ ” he says, “that will never happen.”

“Margaery is very persistent.”

“She doesn’t want Jon,” Robb says confidently, “she wants me.”

Sansa glances at him as the hall breaks into a dance and the King extends his hand. Margaery takes it happily, letting herself be led, and she swears a flicker of triumph passes over her features.

“You seem very sure of yourself.”

“I am,” he shrugs, “you should be too. I’ve known the King my whole life _—_ and I’ve never seen him look at _anyone_ the way he looks at you.”

Sansa sighs, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

“He’s _married_ ,” she murmurs, “I won’t be his whore.”

“He would never treat you like that,” Robb says fiercely, “he’s a good man. You’d want for nothing.”

She shakes her head because he doesn’t _get_ it.

She wants _him._

She wants all of him, the good and the bad, the parts no-one else gets to see, and he could never give her _that_.

“Perhaps you should focus on the object of your own affections,” she grumbles, tipping her cup to the King and Margaery turning gracefully around the floor.

“Oh, I will,” Robb smirks, “ _I_ don’t give up that easily.”

It sounds pointed, like he’s aiming the accusation at her, and he kisses the back of her hand before he leaves her. He moves over to the King and Margaery, his lips moving as he clearly asks for a dance, and the King gives a smooth nod. 

Margaery takes Robb’s hand, her cheeks blossoming, despite being led away from the man she supposedly wants to ensnare. He takes her in his arms and even through her slightly blurred vision, Sansa thinks they look a handsome pair.

She thinks about retiring for the night, laying down and replaying that kiss in her head over and over, maybe even letting her hand drift between her thighs to find that little nub that feels good to touch.

But then the King is standing in-front of her, one hand behind his back and the other extended.

“Dance with me.”

Sansa’s too drunk and too confused and too obsessed with him to say no.

She takes his hand, ignoring the way it sparks heat through her body, and lets him lead her. People part as they walk, dipping into curtseys and bows for him, but he doesn’t seem to care. He lets go of her hand and she wants to pull it straight back.

Lords and ladies gather next to them in a line as the music strikes up again.

She lifts her chin, expression guarded. Their eyes lock, dark on light, and it’s not something exciting, but something paralysing, like when all the air has been sucked out of the room and there’s none left to breathe.

She feels unbalanced, untethered, like she doesn’t have the strength to stay away from him anymore. Something delicate and significant is unfolding between them and he takes a slow step forward, never breaking her gaze.

He lifts his hand and Sansa follows, lifting her own. They encircle each other, never quite touching palms and never breaking eye contact. Time gapes between them, a yawning chasm, before he finally circles an arm around her waist and pulls her tight into his body.

She bites back a sharp gasp, her nerves lit, and he starts to lead.

He dances like he fights, graceful and sure and smooth, and she wants to look away from his eyes but she just _can’t._

She can feel his heat, his strength, and everything inside her seems to flare to life at once. 

He still hasn’t said anything, hasn’t spoken a word, his jaw clenched tight. She can’t bear the silence, so she attempts to be casual when she asks:

“Are you well, my King?”

His brow quirks and his head tips to the side. He doesn’t reply, but merely pulls her closer.

He spins her and she sees Margaery and Robb over his shoulder. The Commander holds her close, looks at her like she hung the stars, like he could really love her. Margaery wears a matching expression, an adoration Sansa’s never seen before shining behind her eyes.

The song switches but the King shows no sign of letting her go.

He leans into her further, awarding her a waft of smoke and ale and something deliciously masculine, and she feels even drunker than before.

When he speaks, his hands are tight on her waist, burning even through the fabric of her dress.

It's a mutter into her hair, a low growl like his direwolf.

“Come to me tonight.”

She pulls back, a surprise that quickly morphs into desire flickering over her face.

The song changes again and he lets her go.

He doesn’t wait for her response.

He merely steps back and plants a kiss on the back of her hand, and then he’s gone.

She still feels the ghost of his hands on her.


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa returns to her chambers and considers staying there.

She paces up and down, biting her nails, weighing all the options.

She could lock herself in her chambers. She could continue to ignore this heat between them. She could keep denying him and then one day he’s sure to get bored and move on. She would avoid Cersei’s wrath and keep her nose out of trouble, could never be blamed for why her sister’s plan didn’t work, and she could stay her own woman, not to be used as a pawn by Littlefinger and Varys and her father.

When the time is right, the King would accept a suitable match for her, someone nice and safe and ordinary, and she could return to Highgarden.

 _Everything_ points to staying right here in her chambers.

And _yet_ —

She’s standing in-front of his door without even realising she’s walked there.

She doesn’t want ordinary.

It hasn’t been an option for her since the day he rode into Highgarden. He’s stolen it from her, replaced it with a need only for him, and no-one else will do.

There’s no point fighting it, no rationality, no sense — there’s only him.

He’s left the door unguarded and the silence pierces like a knife. Her stomach churns in a mixture of guilt, excitement and nervousness. She lifts her hand only to drop it again in painful indecision. She stares at the cracks in the weathered wood and takes a breath.

Then, she finally knocks.

He opens the door, looking dark and solemn and far too beautiful to be real.

She stares at him for a moment and he stares right back, time standing still. Then, he opens the door wider and she walks in, brushing past him.

The click of the latch as he locks the door is deafening.

“You came,” he murmurs.

She releases a shaky breath, fiddling with her hands.

“I nearly didn’t.”

“Why did you?”

He takes a step towards her, wanting to know. He wants her to say it, to stop fighting.

“Because I can’t deny this anymore,” she says softly, “I can see now there’s no point.”

Not if she wants to ever be happy again, to ever _breathe_ again.

“Aye, there isn’t,” he says, as reticent as ever.

He never says much, but his actions speak louder than words, and she doesn’t want to speak anyway.

She doesn’t want flowery declarations, or dramatic avowals of love.

She wants _him,_ with all his quiet strength.

He gently takes her face in his hand, his thumb swiping across her cheekbone. She leans into it, her eyelids fluttering closed, and when they open, she imagines them a darker blue.

“If it means anything…” he starts, his thumb travelling down to brush over her bottom lip, “I’ve never done this before.”

She quirks a brow, confused.

“You’ve never…?”

Her cheeks flush furiously, her voice loaded with implication.

“No,” his mouth twitches under his beard, “I mean… since I’ve been King, I’ve never taken anyone else to bed.”

 _I’ve never been unfaithful to my wife,_ Sansa thinks blankly, dully, reading between the lines of euphemism.

 _He’s never had a mistress,_ she thinks the word, the one she dreaded, _because that’s what you are._

She supposes he wants her to know she wouldn’t be one of many. He wants her to know he’s as tortured by this as she is, that he didn’t _plan_ for it, that Robb was right and he’s a good man and he would treat her well. He’s not like the Kings that have come before him, visiting brothels and using women for his own pleasure before tossing them aside, their reputations ruined.

He was raised by Ned Stark and from what Sansa’s heard of the man, he lived his life by his honour. It’s said the King has always wanted to be just like him, that same sense of honour his defining characteristic, and yet here he is, ready to forsake his marriage vows for her.

But an affair is still an affair, no matter how you try to paint it or wrap it up in something else.

Yet, she doesn’t care. She’s not thinking about Cersei, or Margaery, or _anything_ else. She’s surrounded by him, surrendered to it, and she doesn’t have it in her to fight anymore.

“Well, I haven’t,” she says quietly, “you know… done _any_ of this before.”

Her cheeks flush again at her inexperience, but he doesn’t look surprised.

“I’ll take care of you.”

His voice is all low, a husky northern brogue, and it shoots heat between her thighs.

She nods her consent, her eyes flickering up to his, and it’s all he needs to close the gap and kiss her.

She breathes through her nose, his lips soft and still against hers. Her hands come up to his face and she feels his beard between her fingers, masculine and coarse and _perfect_. He starts to kiss her gently, setting a slow pace, letting her get used to it, before his tongue swipes across her bottom lip. She moves on instinct, opening her mouth and tentatively touching her tongue to his.

He makes a little noise from the back of his throat and it spurs her on, her tongue seeking his and wrapping around it. Every slide is like hot silk, sparking heat between her legs, and she rubs her thighs together to relieve the ache. He walks her backwards until she’s hitting the bedpost and then his mouth breaks away from hers.

She groans in displeasure, chasing his lips, but he merely smiles, amused. With his left hand, he takes her face in his thumb and forefinger and gently turns it to the side, moving his mouth to her neck. She arches against him as he plants hot, open mouthed kisses down the length of her flushed skin. He sucks a bloom into her neck, his hands gripping her hips and pulling her tighter against his body.

She can feel him under his jerkin, all hot, hard muscle and her hands tug him closer. She’s desperate for him, bordering on madness, but he keeps her tethered, controlling the pace. Her fingers shake as she unties the laces of his jerkin, claiming his mouth again. When she gets it untied, he helps her take it off, removing his shirt at the same time, and then she’s faced with his bare chest.

He’s all hard, learn muscle, sun-kissed skin marred with scars. He has a warrior’s body, a King’s, and not for the first time, Sansa feels out of her depth.

He doesn’t give her the space to doubt this, to feel insecure. His hands gently turn her around and begin to unlace her dress. Her chest feels too tight and she reminds herself to breathe, smiling at the soft kiss he places on her shoulder as her dress flutters to the floor. She steps out of it, left only in her smallclothes, and when he removes them too, she releases a shudder that has nothing to do with the cold.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs against her lips, kissing her again, and then his hands travel to her breasts. He cups them, gently squeezing, and she moans against his mouth when he tweaks a nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

As he plays with her nipple, the other hand travels to her behind and he tugs her closer. Her legs spread automatically and he slips a thigh between them, gently grinding it against her. She gasps sharply, pleasure sparking from head to toe, as he slides the hard muscle against her cunt. She must be soaking into the fabric of his breeches, but she doesn’t care, her hips rolling and chasing her pleasure.

His mouth goes to her ear, his tongue tracing the shell.

“I want to fuck you,” he murmurs hotly, making her shudder, “I want to take your maidenhead.”

She practically _whimpers._

Before she can answer, can attempt to find the words, he speaks again.

“But there’s something else I want to do first.”

She blinks, and then he’s lowering himself to the floor.

It does something to her, the sight of him — a _King,_ on his knees for her.

His hands go to her thighs, his thumbs gently digging into her flushed skin as he spreads them. Then he’s face to face with her glistening cunt, soaking wet and aching for him.

She instinctively goes to shut her legs.

“Don’t hide,” he murmurs, keeping her spread for him, and when his dark eyes rove over her, it looks like he bites back a moan, “you have the prettiest cunt.”

Then he leans in and licks a hot stripe from her opening to her clit.

Sansa bites back a curse, her back arching. Her hand flies to his hair, tugging the leather band from it and raking her fingers through his loose curls. At the scratch of her nails against his scalp, he groans into her cunt. The sound is muffled, but the vibrations intensify the sensation of his tongue.

She’s heard of this act, blushed when Margaery made lewd demonstrations with her fingers, but she never imagined a man doing it to her – let alone a _King._ It doesn’t seem the sort of act a King would undertake for a woman, but clearly Jon is an exception. He seems to enjoy it, wringing out her pleasure, playing her like an instrument he mastered years ago.

“Jon,” she chokes his name, a sound that’s more like a sob, and he growls his approval into her cunt.

His tongue laps at her, one finger spreading her wetness, preparing her by teasing her clit first. He gently pushes it inside and the intrusion is foreign, but not unpleasant, and she can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to be filled by his cock instead.

She glances down, heat flaring unbearably under her skin at the sight of his dark curls bobbing between her thighs. Her fingers tighten around his curls, her hips rocking, pushing his face further into her cunt. She’s too far gone to feel embarrassed and it’s messy and loud, the sounds he’s making practically obscene.

As he licks her and keeps his index finger inside her, she registers him using his other hand to remove the ring from his middle finger. Then he’s inserting that into her too, gently fucking her with two fingers. They’re calloused and thick, and they stretch her, preparing her for his cock.

His lips wrap around her tiny bundle of nerves and suddenly a coil unfurls in the pit of her stomach. She feels like she’s reaching an edge, her toes curling into the stone floor, and with one more flick of his tongue, she flies over it.

She shudders and shakes as he rides her through it, letting her come down from it.

She practically drags him back to his feet, kissing him fiercely and tasting herself on his tongue. His mouth and beard are wet with her and she shakily asks what that feeling was.

With a voice lined in amusement, he tells her it was an orgasm – and he gives her two more before sunrise.

Sansa’s happiness dissipates when she sees Margaery sneaking out of the King’s chambers the very next evening.

She watches from behind a lantern, her heart in her chest, and her eyes sting with the betrayal.

 _But it’s not a betrayal,_ she tells herself, _he’s not yours, and Margaery wanted him first._

Still, she had shared something with him, given him her pleasure, and she can’t believe he would lay with her sister the very next night.

She feels sure she knows him, and this doesn’t make sense.

She stays unmoving for a few moments before she follows her sister back to her chambers, needing answers.

She doesn’t knock, merely opens the door and lets herself inside.

Her sister is wearing a sheer crimson dressing gown, her cheeks flushed and her feet bare, and she looks neither surprised nor embarrassed to be caught in a state of undress. They’re _sisters_ and Margaery has never been ashamed of nudity at the best of times.

“How can I help you, Sansa?” she says, arching a perfect brow and crossing her arms over her chest.

Sansa stares at her, her eyes and throat burning, and she can’t find the words.

“Where have you been?”

Margaery gives her a deadpan stare, tipping her head to the side.

“You know where I’ve been,” she says blankly.

Sansa tries to blink back her fury, her vision blurring, and she bites into her bottom lip to stop it from trembling.

Her sister pushes her, taking a step forward, needing to rip the confession from her own throat.

“Why do you care?”

Her voice is sharp, cutting like ice, and Sansa gives as good as she gets.

“You lay with him?”

Margaery scoffs bitterly and rolls her eyes, her expression cruel.

“It’s called _fucking,_ Sansa,” she bites out, “yes, I fucked him. Now get out.”

Sansa furiously wipes the first tear the falls from her cheek. She doesn’t want to seem weak, like a silly little girl with silly dreams who never learns.

But the hurt burns deep in her veins, and Margaery sighs at the look on her face, a flicker of weakness passing over her own.

There’s a gulf between them, wide and aching, one they never imagined would be caused by a man. Margaery always swore one would never come between them.

 _Boys come and go,_ she would say when they were young, _but you will always be my little sister._

They’ve always been different, but they’ve always loved each other.

They’re light and dark, two sides of the same coin, roses that have grown inextricably wrapped around each other. Sansa remembers how she would read to her, how she’d brush her hair and promise to keep her safe, and somewhere along the way, they got lost.

“No more tears, Sansa,” Margaery orders, holding her chin high, “it’s for your own good.”

When she reaches for her, Sansa bats her hand away.

“Don’t touch me.”

Then she leaves – and only when she’s closed the door to her own chambers does she allow herself to cry.

"You’re been avoiding me,” the King states in the gardens a week later, having finally cornered her.

His hand gently curls around the crook of her elbow and he tugs her into the corner of a hedge maze, away from prying eyes.

Over his shoulder, there’s a fountain in the distance, the sun casting a pretty rainbow as it bounces off the clear water, but she sees none of it. She sees only him.

“Yes, I have,” she bites out bitterly, “I would like to continue to do so, so please let me go.”

“Why?”

Anger flares under her skin.

“Because you’re not who I thought you were, my _King_.”

The moniker is sarcastic this time as it falls from her mouth, and she tries to walk away.

He doesn’t let her, his hands dragging her back and holding tight.

“Speak,” he orders.

Her blood pulsing too hot in her veins and her temper stretched tight, she does.

“You got what you wanted,” she says lowly, “two pretty roses wrapped around your cock, isn’t that what Robb said?”

He looks surprised by her crudeness, faltering slightly, and his brows pull into a frown.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I _saw_ my sister coming out of your room,” she hisses, fire in her eyes.

“Aye, she was there.”

His voice is measured, even and smooth, and his brazenness kicks at her stomach like a mule.

“Let me go.”

“Nothing happened,” he continues in that steady voice, “she offered herself to me. I said no, we talked for a while, and I sent her away. That’s all.”

She pauses, her eyes searching his face. She wants to believe him, wants to so badly, but as much as she wants him, she trusts her sister.

“I want to believe you...”

“Then believe me,” he orders, but his voice is gentle, “have I not made the way I feel about you perfectly clear?”

She exhales on a shaky breath, feeling torn.

He clarifies it nonetheless, his hand coming up to cup her cheek. His thumb swipes over her collarbone, the steel of his rings cool on her cheek, and her eyelids flutter closed.

“I want you,” he murmurs, “ _only_ you.”

He moves back slightly to take her hands, entwining their fingers and bringing them to his mouth.

“These hands,” he kisses them.

He gifts them back to her then and brushes his mouth against hers.

“This mouth,” he mutters and kisses her once.

His hand travels between her thighs, gently cupping her mound through the fabric of her dress. She arches against him, a choked gasp catching in her throat, as he murmurs the next filthy word into her ear.

“This cunt.”

She feels like she’s on fire, her brain clouded, as he pulls back

“I want this mind,” he says then, achingly soft, and his finger taps on her forehead, “this kind, intelligent mind.”

His palm slips to her chest, his fingers splaying over the hollow of her throat.

“I want this heart.”

She wants to give it to him, wants to give him everything, but she doesn’t know what to believe.

He doesn’t push her, doesn’t demand anything from her. He wants her to make her own decision, come to her own conclusion.

He takes a step back.

“Ask your sister to tell you the truth.”

“Tell me the truth about the King.”

Sansa finds Margaery on a balcony on the eastern wall of the Red Keep, looking out across Blackwater Bay.

Standing behind her, she sees her sister’s shoulders tense, her hands curling into the stone.

“You believe him, then?” Margaery says hollowly, “he has you wrapped around his finger.”

“I never said I believed him,” Sansa walks until she’s standing next to her, joining her in looking out across the shimmering water, “after-all, why would you lie? You’re my sister. I trust you over _anyone._ ”

“I had to see if my suspicions were correct,” she insists, “they clearly were, judging by your reaction.”

“So you did lie?”

Unmistakable guilt flashes over Margaery’s pretty face and she gives a heavy sigh.

“Yes,” Margaery says quietly, “but I meant it when I said it was for your own good.”

“How?” Sansa asks angrily, feeling betrayed. She’s hurt, furious and confused, and Margaery suddenly looks sad.

“He can’t give you what you want. Sansa, please believe me, I never wanted to hurt you. I never, _ever_ want to see you hurt. But you deserve better than this. Better than hiding in the shadows, resigned to a dirty secret.”

Sansa’s mouth drops at her hypocrisy.

“Can you hear yourself? _You_ wanted this!”

“But you didn’t!” Margaery explodes, her voice thick with tears, “and you’re _better_ than me. You’re _good_ and pure and honest. You shouldn’t be used. You should be free to marry a good man, live a good life.”

“No, I should be free to make my own choices,” she says quietly, “and to choose who I love.”

Margaery looks surprised at the word, her expression turning sad again.

“Sansa, you can’t love him.”

She can’t, but she thinks she might, and she’s resigned to the fact.

She couldn’t stop now, not even if she wanted to. Not now she knows what his hands feel like, what his mouth feels like.

And even though she’s angry at her sister, she doesn’t want to lose her, or for this to keep coming between them.

“Don’t lie to me anymore, Margaery,” she says tiredly.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” is all her sister says in reply, her voice just as tired.

_I don’t._

“I do.”

Sansa says, and leaves her with only the waves of Blackwater Bay for company.

Robb’s standing guard by the King’s door when Sansa visits the next evening.

His hand is resting on the hilt of the sword at his hip and he arches a brow when he sees her approaching. It feels like everything’s been leading up to this and he doesn’t look surprised.

He just asks, “are you sure?”

And she nods, because she is.

He nods back, his hand going behind him to knock on the door, and when it opens, he leaves them with a short bow.

The King gestures for her to come inside and closes the door.

“Margaery told you the truth then?”

Sansa nods, clasping her hands in-front of her.

“She did.”

He takes a small step towards her.

“I’m not a fool, Sansa,” he says quietly, “I know what your family were planning. I know what your sister was planning. I’ve always known. The Tyrells have quite the reputation for their ambition.”

She shuffles on her feet, anxiety stirring in the pit of her stomach. She wonders if he’s going to punish them, if he’ll send her away. 

“Are you angry?”

He tips his head to the side and she imagines he looks like that wolf he loves.

“No,” he murmurs, “it would never have worked. I have only been with two women, Ygritte and my wife… and that was only once on our wedding night.”

She doesn’t particularly like hearing about Cersei, but she thinks she understands his point.

“Why?” she pushes it, “she’s a beautiful woman.”

“Aye, she is,” he concedes, “but I don’t love her. I never have.”

“Why should that matter?”

“It matters to me.”

Sansa sighs, finding herself at a loss.

“I didn’t want to leave Highgarden,” she says eventually, “I meant it when I said I wanted a quiet life. I never wanted this.”

A part of her is resentful, angry at him for bringing her here, but she can’t deny it’s the truth when he says—

“No, but you want me.”

His voice is strong and sure and he continues speaking, taking another step towards her.

“I know because I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you. I tried not to, but I can’t stop.”

Sansa nods, feeling a warm ache spread throughout her bones.

“Me too,” she admits, “I can’t either.”

He takes her face in his hands, his expression serious.

“I don’t know what I can give you,” he says quietly, sounding honest, but broken and torn.

It humbles her, that this King doesn’t know what he can offer her. He doesn’t spin her tales, promise her a world he can’t deliver, and she doesn’t want him to.

She just wants him.

“Just kiss me.”

They can worry about the rest later.

He does as she commands, capturing her mouth in a heated kiss.

She sighs, melting into him, and as the kiss quickens, her hands go straight to the belt of his tunic. She knows what she wants now, is tired of waiting, and she quickly unties it. He works on the laces of her dress as she does, his strong hands ripping the bodice apart with a growl when he becomes too impatient.

Everything moves quicker then, burning hotter, pulsing brighter than before.

Her breasts spill out the top of her corset and he lowers his mouth to them, planting open mouthed kisses on her heated skin. He bends slightly, his hands hooking behind her thighs, before he lifts them, encouraging her to wrap her legs around his waist.

He returns to her mouth as he walks them forward, depositing her on the bed. She crawls back as he climbs over her. He covers her with his body and he’s all marble, strong and smooth. She tugs at his clothes, desperate to get them off, and he acquiesces, leaning back to remove his tunic and shirt.

She runs her hands over the strong muscles and ridges of his stomach, feeling his abs twitch under her fingers.

His mouth moves to her neck as he slowly removes her dress, his hands sure and warm and comforting. She gives herself over to it, doesn’t let herself second guess it or fear it. The air pulses hot between them as his hands move to the laces of his breeches next, pulling them down his muscled legs.

She feels like she needs to take control of the situation, her hands starting to shake. She shuffles and places a hand on his chest, manoeuvring him until he’s laying back and she can climb over him. She pushes down her nerves and straddles his strong thighs, lowering herself until his clothed erection rubs against her heated core.

She gasps at the sensation, her nails curving into his chest. Her hair falls in a red curtain when she leans down to kiss him, protecting them from the outside world, and her tongue finds his. She rolls her hips experimentally, revelling in the little growl he releases into her mouth, and she kisses him harder.

His hands go to her arse, roughly cupping it and helping her set a steady pace as she grinds on top of him. His cock is hot and hard between her thighs and she feels an answering pulse in her cunt.

“Off,” she pants against the corner of his mouth, his beard rough under her lips, “get these off.”

She feels the curve of his smile against her as his hands go to his small clothes, lifting his hips up to remove them. She does the same to her own and then they’re both naked and she’s not shying away. In-fact, he’s lowering herself down again, her soaking cunt sliding against the length of his cock, and there’s a flash of white as he hisses through his teeth.

“Come here,” he practically begs, his pupils blown to black as he pats his chest, “let me taste your cunt again.”

The words race straight to her pulsing core but she shakes her head, some strange, foreign confidence overwhelming her. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth, glancing down at him coyly.

“You’re rarely told _no,_ ” she says, rotating her hips in a devastatingly slow circle, “isn’t that right, my King?”

He narrows his eyes, a displeased pout forming on his full lips.

“I want to lick your cunt,” he says clearly, seemingly obsessed with the act, and she smirks again, “I want to feel you come on my face.”

“ _I_ want to feel you inside me,” she replies instead, “I don’t want to wait anymore.”

He looks a little surprised, his expression faltering slightly, and his hands travel to her waist.

“Are you sure?” he asks, quiet and restrained, because he knows there will be no going back from this. Her future husband will come to his marriage bed expecting a maid for a wife, and this will ruin her.

The words she had spoken to her father all those months ago come flooding back. 

_These are your dreams for me, then? To trade me off like cattle to a man who is already married, for any children I may bear to be bastards, for him to use me for his own pleasure and toss me aside? And what then? My reputation and prospects would be ruined!_

And yet here she is, moving onto her back and spreading her legs for the King.

He rolls over, covering her with his body again. She feels his cock twitch between her legs and leans forward to take a proper look. It’s big, so big she wonders how it will ever fit inside her, with a weeping tip and throbbing vein running down the underside. Her hand reaches down, tentatively wrapping around the length. She squeezes it, marvels at the groan the act rips from his throat, and gives it an experimental tug.

“Does it hurt?” she whispers because it looks like it does – all red and pulsing and angry.

He laughs, half tortured, half amused.

“It will if I’m not inside you soon.”

Her thighs spread wider at the words, the heat between them unbearable. Her hands return to his chest, her nails carving moon shaped crescents into his skin, and his own flies to his cock, giving it a few pumps before he lines the head with her entrance.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he orders smoothly and captures her lips in a soft kiss as he pushes inside her.

It _does_ hurt, but her heat and the wet invites him in, and she purses her lips, knowing a pinch of pain is to be expected. He gives her time to adjust and she can feel the heat of his eyes on her as she squeezes her own shut. 

When they flutter open, she can see his jaw clenched tight in restraint, and he looks like he’s in pain too. He only moves when she gives him a nod of encouragement, the sharp pain morphing into more of a dull ache. He takes one of her hands, entwining their fingers by her head.

He fucks her slowly, his hips moving in shallow thrusts, and their mouths brush against each other hotly, sliding but never quite connecting.

“ _Sansa,_ ” he husks into her neck, a breathy and strangely familiar welcome home.

The pain is mostly gone now, so she kisses him, their tongues crudely mimicking the movement of their hips below. She moans, forgetting all dreams of a normal life, of every blonde haired boy from Highgarden who ever smiled at her. He’s all she can see.

“My King,” she chokes out, gasping as he thrusts hard, once, and buries himself to the hilt, _“mine_.”

He growls into her neck and snaps his hips, that title he normally hates clearly arousing him.

“Say my name,” he commands nonetheless, his mouth tracing her sweat-slicked collarbone, “tell me who’s fucking you.”

“Jon,” it’s ripped from her throat, shocks of pleasure sparking from her head to the tips of her toes, “Jon, Jon…”

He fucks her harder, spurred on by his name, and her lips find his throat as they move together. She’s practically shaking, because he’s so warm and so good and so _hers,_ and she brushes her mouth against the strong line of his jaw. His stubble is rough under her lips and his skin tastes like smoke and salt and sweat.

His hand travels to her cunt, his thumb rubbing insistent circles on her clit as he fucks her faster. Her toes curl into the sheets, her back arching, as that coil in her stomach curls tight again. He feels her clench around him, tight and hot and wet, and he whispers in her ear to coax her off the edge.

“Good girl,” he murmurs darkly, “that’s it… come for me, my love, let me feel you.”

She wouldn’t admit it, but it’s the _love_ that sends her over, her body exploding in white hot pleasure. It rockets through her, eclipsing anything she ever _thought_ was pleasure in the past, and she shakes in the afterglow. He gives one, two, three more pumps before a growl rumbles from deep inside his chest and he pulls out, shooting hot, sticky seed across her still pulsing cunt.

The act brings her back to earth, a coldness creeping over her skin like a blanket. 

He can’t come inside her. He can’t fill her up and watch it drip out of her. He can’t coat her womb with his seed and let it quicken, turning into a beautiful babe with his curls and her eyes. Half wolf, half rose.

Her eyes and throat burn with tears and she turns her head so he won’t see.

“Don’t cry,” he says nonetheless, the words futile, “I will not give you a bastard.”

She doesn’t need to be reminded.

She nods sharply, clenching her jaw and stubbornly wiping her tears. For once, she wishes he would indulge her. She wishes he wouldn’t be so achingly honest, would hide behind euphemism and coat his words in flowery admissions, like a southern lord might do.

She knows he’s a Northern man, unapologetically gruff and honest, but this is too painful. The night has been so perfect; she wishes he’d let her dream for a minute.

“You’re misunderstanding me,” he says then, kissing her once on the mouth.

She rears back, breaking the kiss, and there’s a question in her eyes.

His smile is devastating.

“I won’t give you a bastard,” he says again, “because I will give you a trueborn son or daughter — when I make you my wife.”

Over the next week or so, as Jon makes her body sing and teaches her how to embrace her own pleasure, she tries to talk him out of it.

She tries to reason with him, a million excuses falling from her lips.

_The Kingdom is still recovering from war. It needs stability, not a new Queen._

_Cersei won’t just give up. Tywin Lannister won’t give up. You could be risking another war._

_I wouldn’t be a good Queen._

He takes the most offence at the last one, tells her she’s kind and moral and wise — exactly the sort of Queen this Kingdom hasn’t seen for centuries.

He tells her ruling would be a little more bearable with her by his side.

He tells her he’s fallen in love with her, and if she loves him too, that’s all that matters. Everything else can wait.

She says she needs to speak to Margaery, because things haven’t been right between them for a long time, and she needs to fix it.

When she lifts her hand to knock on her sister’s chamber door, she doesn’t know what she expects. She imagines her angry, furious at her because she knows exactly where she’s been, and she still sees it as a betrayal. She imagines her upset, burning with resentment and jealousy. Against her better judgement, she allows herself to indulge in the fantasy that she will be ecstatically happy for her, devoid of sceptisim.

What she _doesn’t_ expect is for the door to swing open before she can knock, Robb Stark standing on the other side.

He’s got one hand on the door handle and he hasn’t seen her yet, his head twisted and his attention on the woman beside him. Margaery’s got her arms wrapped around his waist and he’s grinning at her, his smile crinkling the edges of his eyes, and Sansa recognises her sister’s musical giggle.

The Commander leans down, kissing Margaery on the mouth once for goodbye, before he turns to leave.

That’s when he notices Sansa in the doorway and his eyes widen.

“Ah… look who it is,” he drawls lightly, patting the back of Margaery’s hand, her arms still tight around his waist and her cheek snuggled against his side.

Margaery lifts her head, following his eyeline.

Sansa gives her a tight smile.

“Sister,” Margaery greets tentatively, her arms dropping from Robb’s waist.

Robb’s hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck before he smiles too.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” he murmurs. He gives them a nod, tipping a brow to both of them, before he leaves with a parting, “good afternoon, ladies.”

Then he’s gone and silence falls over them.

It’s never been like this, awkward between them, and Sansa hates it.

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” she blurts out, her voice thick with emotion.

Margaery looks affected too, a flicker of sadness passing over her features.

“I don’t either,” she says softly.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” Sansa insists, “or go behind your back. It’s just… the way things happened. You know I wanted a simple life, not a _King._ ”

Margaery’s lips twitch into a smile.

“You remember how _obsessed_ you were with Harry Hardyng when he visited from the Vale?” a small laugh escapes her lips as they both remember the boy.

He had sandy hair, deep blue eyes and dimples when he smiled. She’d been around two and ten when he’d visited with Robert Arryn, and with his aquiline nose and hard muscled body, he looked every inch a young lord-in-waiting. She’d been enamoured immediately and her father had said maybe one day they’d be promised to each other, and she’d be the envy of every highborn maiden in the Vale, Riverlands and Reach.

Over the years, nothing much had come of it, and now here she is, probably about to become the envy of _every_ maiden, highborn and low, throughout all Seven Kingdoms, with a handsome King by her side.

“I remember,” Sansa smiles.

“I thought for sure father would arrange a match,” Margaery says, “who knew you’d end up falling for the White Wolf, rather than the Young Falcon?”

“And that you’d have a wolf of your own,” Sansa says pointedly.

Her sister gives a melancholy smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“When I went to the King’s chambers that night… I knew he’d say no,” she starts, “I mean, I’d been trying since we arrived and he’d barely looked at me. More than that, I _wanted_ him to say no. I don’t even know why I did it, I didn’t want it anymore. I just — I figured I’d made this plan and I had to see it through.”

Sansa understands. Her sister had wanted to be Queen since she was old enough to know what the word meant, and letting go of that dream and all it entailed must have been difficult.

“He said you talked for a little while. What about?”

“He was kind,” Margaery says, “he closed my robe and said I didn’t have to do that. He said I could stay for a little while, because I was clearly lonely and so was he, and we bonded over you and Robb. He said his brother loved me and if I loved him, he would find a way to make it work. He would change the rules around being Commander and taking a wife, or he would find Robb another position, because some good had to come of him being King. Then he told me how he felt about you, how he felt when you walked in a room, and it scared me. When you love someone that much, they can hurt you, and I worried what Cersei would do to you, or what being his mistress would do to you.”

“I understand,” Sansa nods, “but I love him, Margaery. I really do. I never had a choice.”

Margaery doesn’t look surprised.

“I’m so sorry,” she says sincerely, her voice thick with emotion, “I shouldn’t have lied.”

“I forgive you,” Sansa says, because she does, and then she embraces her, murmuring her next words into her hair, “if you can forgive me.”

Margaery steps back, keeping hold of her hands.

“There’s nothing to forgive. He was always yours.”

“But you love the idea of being Queen.”

Her sister smiles, a gentle expression on her normally devious face.

“I love Robb more,” she says and embraces her again, whispering her next words into her hair, “I love _you_ more.”

As expected, Queen Cersei doesn’t give up easily.

Sansa swears the whole castle hears her explosive rage, crashes and bangs coming from inside her chambers when the King tells her he wants a divorce.

She hears her name hurled like a weapon, spat between _bitch_ and _whore._ She hears the King’s temper stretch and snap like a rubber band, his deep voice resonating through the walls.

She sees him storm out of the Queen’s chambers, slamming the door behind him, the rage vibrating off him in waves.

He holds small council meetings, consults with all his advisors, tells Cersei this isn’t a request. From the hushed whispers around the castle, Sansa hears he threw Tywin Lannister out of his solar, every inch as wild as his wolf.

Tyrion despises his cruel sister and feels little loyalty to a family that’s always treated him like a monster, so he helps their cause.

Petyr Baelish and Varys are on the Tyrell’s side too, likely seeing Sansa as a meek Queen who is easier to manipulate, and Sansa’s happy for them to see her as such. When people expect weakness, it’s easier to surprise them. She knows the truth, as does the King.

A furious Tywin insists the King is risking war, that the Lannisters are a powerful family who shouldn’t be slighted. The King reminds him their influence has been waning for years, their main ally the Baratheons who lay splintered with two brothers vying for the throne themselves.

More than that, it’s easier to replace a Queen who is hated, and the people welcome her deposition.

_"Cersei, this is ridiculous,” he says to her tiredly, “I don’t love you. You don’t love me.”_

_Cersei doesn’t deny it but her jaw clenches in fury._

_“You can’t just get rid of me. Our marriage was consummated.”_

_“Once,” he bites out, “and we haven’t made love since. Besides, I’m not asking for an annulment. I’m asking for a divorce. It’s not your fault, Cersei. And I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you… but we both know we’ve been on borrowed time. I want to give you the chance to leave gracefully, to live out the rest of your years at Casterly Rock. But if you refuse… I will do whatever’s necessary. That includes revealing the true nature of the relationship you had, and continue to have, with Ser Jaime.”_

_He sees the movement of Cersei’s throat as she swallows and behind the fire in her eyes, there’s the first signs of defeat_.

It takes more than a year, but Sansa marries the King in a fine ceremony with everyone they love watching, and furious Lannisters vowing revenge.

He uses his power to change the rules of the Kingsguard, freeing Robb to marry Margaery, and the sisters spend out the rest of their days in Kings Landing, the men they love by their sides.

The people adore them, sing songs about them, the King of Winter and his Rose Queen.

And when she does give him a trueborn son, nine moons to the day from their wedding night, they call him Eddard.

He kisses her, thanks her, and over the years, she gives him another and a daughter too. Three children, half wolf, half rose, with a hint of the dragon. They’re a perfect blend of the noble houses that have come before, and as the years pass, they make their parents proud, best friends with Margaery and Robb’s own son and daughter.

Lying in bed at night, staring at the canopy, Sansa often ponders on how she never wanted this.

And then she realises… what we want isn’t always what we need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we have it! I'm not crazy about this last chapter, but wanted to get it posted before I lost all inspiration with it. Hope you enjoyed this little world and thank you so much for the love. I'm rubbish at replying to comments, I'm trying to be better, but I honestly love and appreciate every one <3
> 
> P.S I may at some point add a little drabble of Margaery and Jon's conversation in his chambers, because I think that'd be kinda interesting...?🤷🏼♀️

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fanart manips for The Other Tyrell Girl by usuallysunny](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25769296) by [Norrlands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Norrlands/pseuds/Norrlands)




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